THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


,v 


THE  GREEK  GIRL 


THE 


GREEK  GIRL; 


A    TALE,    IN    TWO    CANTOS 


BY 


JAMES  WRIGHT  SIMMONS. 


"  I  have  one  part  in  nay  heart 
That's  sony  yet  for  tliee." 

LKAB  :  Act  in.  Sc.  n. 


BOSTON  AND  CAMBRIDGE  : 
JA.MES    MUNROE    AND    COMPANY. 

MDCCCLII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

JAMES  MUNKOE  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


1!  0  S  T  0  N  : 

TWRiSTOS,  TORP.Y,  AND   EMERSON,   PRINTERS. 


PS 


TO 

THE    PRESIDENT    AND   FACULTY 

OF   HARVARD   UNIVERSITY, 

THESE  FACES   ARE  MOST   RESPECTFULLY   AND  WITH  GREAT  DIFFIDENCE 

Enscrfbefc, 

BY  ONE  WHO  TOOK  NO    "  HONORS,"  FIRST  OR 

SECOND,  AT  THE  VENERABLE  INSTITUTION  OVER  WHICH 

THEY  PRESIDE,  AND  OF  WHICH  HE  WAS  AN  UNWORTHY  PUPIL 

AND  WHO  NOW  COMES,  UNDER  THE  AUSPICES  OF  APOLLO, 

TO   ASK,  AT  THE  HANDS  OF  THAT  BENIGN  MOTHER, 

FORGIVENESS  FOR  HIS  EARLY  DELINQUENCIES. 

THE    AUTHOR. 


A  GREEK  maiden,  of  gentle  birth,  but  parentless, 
whom  the  casualties  of  Eastern  warfare  had  reduced 
to  the  condition  of  a  Mohammedan  slave,  and  who,  by 
a  similar  casualty,  is  restored  to  her  original  and  far 
more  appropriate  character,  that  of  a  heroine  —  is 
introduced  to  the  reader  in  the  following  pages.  The 
objection  (in  itself  objectionable)  to  Powers's  fine 
Statue  —  namely,  the  absence  of  all  drapery  —  will 
not  apply  in  the  present  instance,  as  I  have  sought  to 
array  Inez  in  a  garb  which,  if  not  strictly  classical,  is 
at  least  in  keeping  with  Oriental  taste.  Should  she 
prove  in  other  respects  as  unexceptionable  as  in  this, 
she  will  have  reason  to  felicitate  herself  as  a  poetical 
debutante. 

With  regard  to  the  young  gentleman,  her  lover,  I 
have  little  to  say  —  except  that  he  is  not  likely  to 
conciliate  the  personal  feelings  of  the  reader.  The 


fault,  if  such  it  be,  is  not  mine  ;  and  we  should  not 
quarrel  with  nature  because  she  does  not  fashion  all 
her  clay  alike.  And  yet  in  this  age  of  Utilitarianism, 
and  even  in  this  New  World,  we  appear  to  recognise, 
with  a  ready  subserviency,  the  distinctions  which 
Wealth  would  create  for  itself;  and,  though  we  stop 
there,  it  is  for  reasons  not  less  characteristic.  Intel 
lectually,  we  are  the  practical  advocates  of  a  level- 
ism  even  lower  than  that  which,  more  than  his 
/  misdeeds,  consigned  Charles  I/,  to  the  block,  and 
entailed  contempt  upon  a  revolutionary  Egalite. 
Nature,  however,  does  not  adapt  her  works  to  suit  our 
systems.  The  consequence  not  unfrequently  is, 
that  we  seek  to  discredit  her  human  porcelain  —  not 
because  it  is  more  costly  than  delf,  but  because  we  do 
not  partake  of  it.  "  A  fixed  star,"  says  the  author  of 
the  "  Night  Thoughts,"  "is  as  much  in  the  bounds  of 
nature  as  a  flower  of  the  field,  though  less  obvious" 

—  and,  he   might  have   added,  less  likely  to  please. 
But  is  it  any  justification,  that  we   should  bay  this 
"  star,"  because  we  cannot  bask  in  its  beams  ?     Poetry 

—  which,  Bacon  tells  us,  "seeks  to  accommodate  the 
shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind  "  —  is  not 
likely  to  dwell  with  those  the  scope  of  whose  mental 
vision  is  forever  narrowed  down  to  the  vulgar  surface 


of  the  earth  on  which  they  walk.  "  Nothing  comes 
of  nothing."  If  mere  utility,  however  respectable,  is 
alone  to  claim  our  consideration,  the  workshop  of  the 
artisan  will  be  our  only  Parthenon ;  and  for  him  and 
his  kindred  co-laborers  alone  our  mausoleums  will  be 
reared. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE   GREEK   GIRL. 


CANTO  I. 


THE  GREEK  GIRL. 


CANTO  I. 

I. 

LONG  years !  long  years  !  the  Pyramids  still  stand, 
But  where  are  those  who  rear'd  them  ?  —  will  the  Nile 
Send  up  his  mighty  voice  from  out  that  land, 
And  tell  us  who  built  each  stupendous  pile  ? 
Cheops,  or  Cephus  ?  —  it  is  writ  in  sand  ! 
The  "  Seven  Wonders"  !  —  mortal,  weep,  or  smile  — 
Still  heaves  the  desert  round  each  haughty  base, 
The  men  are  gone  —  scarce  known  their  name,  or  race  ! 

II. 

And  this  is  all !  and  this  is  much  —  it  teaches 

Mankind  humility  —  but  will  they  learn  ? 

1 


14  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

The  moral 's  almost  daily,  yet  it  reaches 

No  further  than  the  eye,  until  we  earn 

The  sober  truth  by  trials  that  make  breaches 

Within  the  breast  —  its  nature  then  grows  stern  ; 

And  self-neglect  sometimes  succeeds  self-knowledge, — 

A  truth  transcending  those  of  school  or  college. 

III. 

O  Time  —  O  Saturn  !  ye  are  much  the  same, — 
Ye  prey  alike  on  your  own  progeny  ! 
Their  boasted  wisdom  often  but  a  name, 
That  lives,  perhaps,  through  half  a  century, 
When,  lo  !  the  oracle  grows  trite  and  tame, 
Or  proves,  in  fact,  a  mere  mendacity  ! 
Napoleons  of  Wit,  that  charm'd  our  youth, 
Like  Chivalry,  but  fictions,*  —  taken  for  truth  ! 

*  When  that  "  delightful  Vision  "  (as  he  described  the  Queen 
of  France)  that  had  made  such  a  deep  impression  upon  the 
noble  sensibilities  of  Burke,  vanished  before  the  frightful  glare 
of  the  Guillotine,  in  a  burst  of  impassioned  eloquence,  he  ex 
claimed,  "  The  age  of  Chivalry  is  gone  !  "  It  never  existed, 
it  seems.  Hear  Sismondi :  "Get  heroism  universel,  nous 
avons  nomme  la  Chevalerie,  n'exista  jamais  comme  fictions 
brilliantes." — Histoire  Fran$aise  :  Introduction,  p.  20. 


CANTO  I.  1 

IV. 

The  "  Little  Corporal  "  !  what  is  he  now  ? 

Thunders  his  cannon  'neath  the  Pyramid, 

Or  neighs  his  war-steed  'mid  the  Alpine  snow  ? 

Where  flouts  his  banner  ?    Moscow,  or  Madrid  ? 

Along  the  Pyrenean,  or  the  Po  ? 

Approach  the  Isle,  and  lift  the  mould'ring  lid 

Of  the  Imperial  coffin,  and  behold 

A  lesson  twice  two  thousand  ages  old  ! 

Y. 

What  are  its  fruits  ?     Heaven  knows  how  other  men 
May  think,  or  feel  —  but,  for  my  own  poor  part, 
There  are  some  truths  I  would  not  learn  again, 
Nor  can  —  alas,  the  teacher  was  the  heart ! 
Which,  undeceiv'd  too  late  !  recoils  in  pain  ; 
And  we  must  have  recourse,  at  last,  to  art ! 
Instruction's  o'er!  or  if,  to  those  who  feel, 
One  lesson  still  remains,  'tis  —  to  conceal. 

VI. 

'Tis  a  hard  task  !  and  we  reject,  at  first, 
The  frigid  caution  of  the  selfish  breast ; 


16  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Children  of  the  mind,  the  more  they're  nurst, 
Thoughts  grow  the  nearer  to  their  place  of  rest, 
If  it  be  rest !  and,  though  the  heart  should  burst, 
That  agony  must  still  be  self-confest ; 
Nor  prayer  hath  exorcis'd,  nor  priest  hath  shriv'd 
A  mind  resolv'd  to  perish  as  it  liv'd. 

VII. 

Though  pompous  Folly  may  adorn  the  bier, 

And  hollow  mourners  gather  in  the  train 

Of  him  whom  still  they  hate,  but  cease  to  fear ! 

Th'  accustom'd  crowd,  who  still  play  o'er  again 

The  self-same  farce  in  each  succeeding  year, 

Or  month,  or  week  —  the  pleasure  "  physics  pain ;  " 

What  though  with  crab-like  gait  they  track  the  hearse, 

The  dead  bequeaths  them  his  contempt,  or  curse  ! 

VIII. 

The  secret  foe,  or  he  who,  basely  brave, 
Speeds  the  loud  calumny  from  door  to  door ; 
Kind,  gentle  friends,  who,  if  they  do  not  save 
Or  spare  your  feelings,  show  their  love  the  more  ! 


CANTO  I.  17 

Behold  the  host  who  gather  round  the  grave, 
Zealous  to  serve  when  all  your  wants  are  o'er ! 
What  though  a  prison  or  a  poison  kill  ? 
To  grace  one's  obsequies  is  something  still ! 

IX. 

The  sun  was  rising,  as  a  pale,  proud  boy 
Mounted  his  steed,  and  sought  the  distant  wood ; 
Did  love  await  him  there,  or  the  fierce  joy 
Of  those  who  cool  the  lip  of  hate  in  blood  ? 
Ambition's  musings  did  his  thoughts  employ, 
Or  early  sorrow  at  his  bosom  brood  ? 
He  stretch'd  him  in  the  quiet  of  that  shade, 
Nor  dream'd  of  war,  nor  yet  of  blooming  Maid ! 

X. 

To  him  th'  insufferable  city  rose 

Like  the  dread  words  that  shook  th'  Assyrian's  soul ! l 

Its  petty  triumphs,  and  its  pompous  woes, 

Its  selfish  virtues,  tending  to  the  goal 

Of  ultimate  advantage  ;  —  its  breath  that  blows 


18  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

The  plague-spot  to  the  heart !  —  its  low  control,*  — 

Stampt  it  but  as  the  slave-mart  of  his  race, 

Fit  haunt  of  crime,  the  base-born  and  the  base.t 

XL 

In  years  a  boy,  in  tendencies  averse 
From  boyish  sports,  he  grew  in  loneliness ; 
Prone  in  each  mood  with  Nature  to  commerce, 
Unveil'd  on  mountain,  or  in  green  recess, — 
Society  was  solitude  ;  the  curse, 
That  hangs  upon  its  hours,  for  him  grew  less, 
As,  day  by  day  —  its  rising  powers  unfurl'd  — 
Of  his  own  mind  he  fashion'd  his  own  world. 

XII. 

Not  the  dim  cell  of  the  dull  Anchorite, 
He  did  survey  the  Universe  !  —  its  page, 


*  The  sullen  Cares, 
And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 

Gray :  Prog,  of  Poesy,  1,  2. 

f  It  is,  I  hope,  unnecessary  to  say,  that  no  exceptionable  al 
lusion  is  intended  in  these  lines,  which  are  simply  expressive 
of  the  fact,  that  all  large  cities  are  but  markets  where  the  pas 
sions  are  bought  and  sold. 


CANTO  I.  19 

Ample  as  time,  in  letters  form'd  of  light, 
He  conn'd  with  deeper  feeling  than  the  Sage ; 
On  Rapture's  wing  he  soar'd  no  middle  flight ; 
Eagle,  escap'd  its  bars,  that  spurn'd  its  cage ! 
And,  as  his  spirit  kindl'd,  the  rapt  boy 
Wept  from  excess  of  undefin'd,  strange  joy  ! 

XIII. 

Shunning  the  crowd,  but  not  as  hating  it, 
He  reap'd  the  fruits  of  the  world's  selfishness, 
(Whose  annals  are  not  fables,  falsely  writ!*) 
And,  one  by  one,  the  ties  grew  daily  less 
That  in  fine  spirits  are  so  closely  knit ; 
With  little  left  his  early  lot  to  bless, 
His  rising  bosom  turn'd  to  other  zone, 
ChilPd  by  late  coldness,  not  to  marble  grown ! 

XIV. 

Feelings  subside,  while  lives  the  fatal  root 

From  which  they  spring ;  and  if  his  heart  had  lost 

*  Bolingbroke  thought  differently. 


20  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Each  sterner  impulse,  and  his  voice  was  mute, 
(Promethean  sufferance,  of  all  the  most!) 
He  had  not  ceas'd  to  feed  on  bitter  fruit ; 
So  sleeps  the  surface  of  some  desert  coast, 
Tho'  o'er  its  sands  no  flowers  of  love  can  blow, 
Its  living  waters  still  lie  quick  below  ! 

XV. 

Meridian  still,  the  flaming  fervor  reign'd, 

Beneath  whose  warmth  he  knelt  to  Beauty's  eyes ! 

Not  those  that  linger  till  the  lights  have  wan'd 

In  dull  assembly  —  the  pale  Paradise 

Of  passion  passionless!  —  the  God,  profan'd, 

From  regions  cold  and  dead  indignant  flies ! 

O  Love  !  thy  temple  is  the  holier  heart 

Of  those  who  from  the  world  still  dwell  apart ! 

XVI. 

Thou  wert  not  made  to  bide  amid  the  throng 
Of  courts ;  or  in  the  peopled  solitude 
Of  cities,  to  contend  with  wrath  and  wrong  ; 
And  bear  the  brunt  of  the  ignoble  feud 


CANTO  I.  21 

Man  wages  with  his  fellow  through  the  long 
Dull  day,  or  year;  —  with  heavenlier  thought  imbu'd, 
Thy  spirit,  given  with  power  to  curse  or  bless, 
Pines  for  the  valley,  or  the  wilderness  ! 

XVII. 

The  steed  that  bore  him  to  the  early  wood, 
Tramps  he  the  war-horse  now  'neath  Eastern  skies  ? 
Where  the  fierce  Ottomite  in  battle  stood, 
Where  flashing  steel  from  Grecian  scabbard  flies, 
And  reeling  cross  and  crescent,  bath'd  in  blood, 
An  instant  falter,  as  a  Hero  dies ! 
Where  thickest  fell  the  cannon's  sulph'rous  night, 
Stood  Oscar,  shadowing  a  Form  of  light !  * 

XVIII. 

A  Suliote  mother  stampt  that  faultless  mould 
Of  Beauty  clad  in  armor,  dreamlike  there  !t 


*  In  the  noblest  part  of  Jewish  types  we  find  the  Cherubim 
shadowing  the  mercy-seat.  —  Sir  Thos.  Browne. 

f  The  Suliotes  were  celebrated  for  their  heroic  resistance  to 
the  Turks. 


22  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

A  touching  history,  and  briefly  told 

To  one  who  treasur'd  it  with  eager  ear ! 

As,  snatching  her  light  form,  where  surging  roll'd 

The  purple  torrent  in  its  fierce  career ! 

To  well  known  fields  he  bore  his  radiant  prize, 

Mute  love  and  wonder  struggling  through  her  eyes ! 

XIX. 

Alas,  where  should  she  go  ?  *    She  had  no  home  ! 
The  world  was  but  one  wilderness  to  her, 
Where,  like  that  bird  that  left  the  Ark,  to  roam 
Over  the  waste  of  waters,  and  incur 
The  racking  winds  of  that  remorseless  foam  ! 
She  scarce  could  hope  for  rest  amid  the  stir 
And  ever-tossing  waves  of  life's  dark  sea  — 
A  bark  so  frail  could  only  founder'd  be ! 

XX. 

In  other  arms  than  those  assum'd,  of  late, 
To  cleave  the  Moslem's  chain  —  a  slave  no  more ! 

*  Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast, 
And  he  retires.     Where  should  Othello  go  ? 

ACT.  v.  SCENE  n. 


CANTO  I.  23 

Well  pleas'd  to  be  released  from  their  rude  weight, 
She  stood  reveal'd  in  the  sweet  sex  she  bore ; 
And  worthy  was  she  of  an  Emperor's  state, — 
Or,  rather,  of  her  own  celestial  shore  ! 
Too  high-soul'd  and  too  pure  the  couch  to  share 
Of  aught  save  Bard,  or  knightly  Cavalier  ! 

XXI. 

One  ankle,  small  and  delicate,  appear'd 
Sweetly  disclos'd  from  underneath  the  dress, 
Which,  jealous  even  of  the  part  it  spar'd, 
Would  not  give  more,  but,  ah,  could  not  give  less ! 
The  stocking,  of  soft,  glowing  silk,  adher'd 
Firmly  tenacious  of  the  loveliness 
ConceaPd  beneath  it ;  while  the  pale,  pink  shoe 
Clung  to  the  small  foot,  as  if  there  it  grew ! 

XXII. 

Her  dress,  when  Oscar  found  her,  though  a  child, 
Bespoke  her  rank  ;  her  boddice  was  in  form 
A  Cuirass  set  with  stars,  that  like  a  shield 
Protected  her  young  bosom  'mid  the  storm 


24  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Of  battle  !  —  her  long  hair,  that  floated  wild 
In  waving  tresses  gemmM  with  shells  from  Orm, 
Gave  to  her  aspect  and  her  motions  all 
That  Fancy  loves  in  visions  to  recall ! 

XXIII. 

Her  head-dress  was  of  satin,  edg'd  with  gold, 
And  parti-color'd  ribbands,  forming  bows, 
That  wav'd  behind  in  many  a  graceful  fold ; 
A  saffron  band  encircl'd  her  fair  brows, 
Of  more  than  Grecian  outline,  —  soft,  yet  bold  ; 
With  all  that  intellectual  grace  that  throws 
A  charm  round  Beauty  richer  than  her  eyes, 
A  lustre  and  a  glory  from  the  skies ! 

XXIV. 

The  dark  and  heavy  ringlets,  clust'ring  'neath 
The  head-dress,  fell  at  times  beside  the  cheek, 
Veiling  its  richness,  where  Love  seem'd  to  breathe 
A  balmy  fragrance  stealing  o'er  the  streak, 
Pomegranate-like,  which  youth  there  seem'd  to  leave  ; 
While  one  deep  feeling,  which  alone  could  speak 


CANTO  I.  25 

In  language  eloquent  as  that  fair  face  ! 
Left  o'er  its  lines  the  lustre  of  its  trace. 

XXV. 

"  Oscar  "  —  her  pale  lip  quiver'd,  and  her  eye 
Moisten'd  a  moment  —  "  do  you  leave,  then  ?  " 
Oscar's  cheek  color'd  —  "  You  are  silent !  —  I 
Am  answer'd  !     Be  it  so.     I  '11  not  again 
Renew  the  question  ;  that  your  destiny 
Takes  you  from  me,  is  certain  !  —  'tis  in  vain 
To  tell  you  all  now  lab'ring  at  my  heart  — 
I  know  it  is  decided,  and  —  we  part ! 

XXVI. 

Take  these  poor  flowers  back,  they've  lost  their  bloom  ! 
Like  all  such  gifts,  however  rich,  when  those 
Who  gave  them  prove,  like  thee,  unkind  !  —  a  gloom, 
Reflected  from  the  uncomplaining  woes 
Of  her  who  wore,  would  tinge  them  like  her  doom ! 
Where'er  thou  go'st,  this  bosom  with  thee  goes ! 
If  thou  to  me  art  nothing,  O  recall 
Thy  vow,  and  take  it  back,  like  these  —  take  all !" 


26  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

XXVII. 

The  last  word  falt'ring  died  upon  her  tongue  ! 
Like  one  who  dreaded  to  be  left  alone, 
To  Oscar's  bosom  tremblingly  she  clung, 
As  though  unto  his  heart  she  would  have  grown  ! 
Gently  remov'd,  one  beauteous  hand  now  hung 
Pale  as  the  lily  there,  and  drooping  down 
Beside  the  rich  folds  of  a  form  too  fair, 
Too  tempting,  yet  too  eloquently  dear  ! 

XXVIII. 

O  gazing  thus,  and  could  he  hope  to  wean 
From  his  the  love  that  nestl'd  in  his  arm  ? 
And  that  fair  face,  in  sorrow  still  serene  ! 
Her  head  reclinM  upon  his  left,  while,  warm, 
And  gently  swelling,  soft,  and  scarcely  seen, 
Her  bosom  lay  beneath  him  like  a  charm  ! 
Whilst  the  frail  lawn,  that  veil'd  it,  half  reveal'd 
The  sweet  mystery,  imperfectly  conceal'd. 

XXIX. 

He  rais'd  the  face  that  droop'd  upon  his  breast, 
While,  half  unclos'd,  the  dark  lids  of  the  eye 


CANTO  I.  27 

At  once  her  passion  and  her  grief  confest ! 
The  brow  was  pale,  and,  o'er  its  lines  of  high 
And  perfect  beauty,  Sorrow  had  imprest 
A  melancholy  trace  that  seem'd  to  lie, 
Pillow'd  and  sleeping  in  its  lovely  shroud, 
Like  darkness  stealing  o'er  a  silver  cloud. 

XXX. 

In  Oscar's  bosom  mix'd  emotions  vied, 

And  sway'd  by  turns ;  but  still,  whate'er  might  be 

The  whisperings  of  passion,  or  of  pride, 

A  better  feeling  gain'd  the  mastery, 

To  selfish  natures  never  yet  allied  ; 

Looking  to  him  she  turn'd  all  helplessly  — 

O  could  he  have  requited  her  with  evil, 

He  had  been  less  than  man,  and  more  than  devil ! 

XXXI. 

Some  painful  recollections  hedg'd  him  in, 
Not  such  divinities  as  guard  a  throne  ! 
He  knew  the  world  full  well,  for  he  had  been  — 
Though  principally  living  in  his  own  — 


28  THE    GREEK    GIHL. 

Partaker  of  its  sorrow  and  its  sin  ; 
It  had  a  heart,  only  'twas  one  of  stone  ! 
Mid-Lothian  like  —  a  prison  where  the  weeper 
Is  starveling  Wit,  and  witless  Wealth  the  keeper. 

XXXII. 

The  truth  is,  his  affairs  were  ebbing  low, 
And  at  a  time  of  life  when  such  things  prove, 
To  say  the  least  of  it,  mal-apropos  ! 
For  with  such  loss  one 's  apt  to  lose  the  love 
Of  people  in  all  stations,  as  things  go ; 
Your  'friends  consider  you  but  one  remove 
From  enemies  ;  whilst  men,  once  secret  foes, 
Fancy  they  then  may  tread  upon  your  toes  ! 

XXXIII. 

Sad  sight !  on  Fortune's  faithless  wheel  revers'd, 
To  see  one's  old  acquaintance  taking  leave, 
In  cautious  couples  pairing  off,  at  first  — 
When  one's  affairs,  being  just  upon  the  eve 
Of  an  explosion,  now  sublimely  burst ! 
When  that  is  over,  men  cease  to  deceive 


CANTO  I.  29 

Themselves,  or  you  —  and  thus  we  all  discern  why 
The  poet  wrote  his  "  Facilis  Averni "  ! 

XXXIV. 

And  then,  perhaps,  our  mistress  leaves  us,  too  ! 

When  one  falls  off,  the  rest  are  apt  to  follow ; 

Fidelity  on  earth's  a  thing  which  you 

(The  human  heart  at  bottom  is  so  hollow !) 

May  meet  with,  possibly,  in  one  or  two ; 

But  most  wives,  seeing  the  grave  their  first  love  swallow, 

Forget  the  loss  in  some  new  idol's  clasp  — 

Ah,  Cleopatra  !  why  prefer  an  Asp  ? 

XXXV. 

Oscar  had  still  some  friends  in  England,  where 

His  gentle  birth  secur'd  him  cold  respect ; 

A  distant  kinswoman  had  caught  a  Peer, 

Who  mov'd,  of  course,  in  what  is  call'd  "  select 

Society"  —  which  means  so  much- a  year  ! 

In  tone  and  style  not  scandal  could  detect 

The  slightest  blemish  in  th'  exclusive  Peeress, 

Who  heir'd,  'twas  said,  each  virtue,  being  an  Heiress! 


30  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

XXXVI. 

She  had,  from  early  childhood,  been  design'd 

To  fill  a  station  in  the  public  eye ; 

Some  care  had  been  bestow'd  upon  her  mind, 

But  more  upon  her  manners,  which  were  high 

And  full  of  graceful  bearing ;  'twixt  the  wind 

Nought  interven'd  and  her  nobility  ! 

Her  temper  being  in  certain  matters  pliable, 

To  prepossessions  render'd  her  quite  liable. 

XXXVII. 

Painting  and  statuary  had  their  charms 

For  Lady  Clementina  Clarington  ; 

She  could  draw  heads,  too,  and  excell'd  in  arms  ! 

(I  know  a  feminine  Pygmalion, 

Beneath  whose  touch  the  statue  sometimes  warms !) 

Not  that  I  mean  her  ladyship  was  one  ; 

Though  the  censorious  did  say  her  "  Ideal  " 

Was  but  a  concentration  from  the  real. 

XXXVIII. 

She  had  a  passion,  too,  for  the  Antique,  — 
Adrian's  male  minion  seem'd  to  charm  her  most ; 


CANTO  I.  31 

The  lips  had  tempted  her — (could  they  but  speak  !) 
To  press  them,  little  caring  for  the  cost ; 
She  took  a  caste,  or  two,  from  the  old  Greek, 
And  sigh'd,  as  she  survey'd  them,  to  think  lost 
Th'  immortal  forms  that  could  so  well  express 
All  that  the  heart  must  feel,  but  not  confess ! 

XXXIX. 

She  seem'd,  at  length,  to  have  imbib'd  disgust 
And  sovereign  aversion  for  the  men 
And  manners  of  the  age ;  and  to  distrust 
Her  better  taste,  or  her  discernment,  when 
But  half  inclin'd  to  praise  a  modern  Bust ! 
So  she  recurr'd  to  the  antique  again, 
With  a  determination  to  extract 
Emotions  which  in  most  cases  react ! 

XL. 

Such  was  the  lady,  but  not  such  her  lord,  — 
Whose  only  merit  was  the  care  bestowed 
On  one  whom  he  had  nurtur'd,  and  ador'd ! 
Who,  in  return  for  feelings  that  still  glow'd, 


32  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Made  him  the  daily  butt  at  his  own  board ! 
And  once  dispatch'd  him  journeying  on  the  road, 
To  make  his  bow  at  Windsor,  or  St.  James's, 
For  honors  that  prov'd  bubbles,  like  the  Thames's ! 

XLI. 

Should  not  a  man  be  wise  at  Forty,  pray  ? 
I  know  not  how  that  may  be,  but  I  know, 
Let  him  be  learn'd  from  Socrates  to  Say, 
A  lady  will  not  willingly  bestow 
(Especially  a  lady  in  her  May) 
Upon  such  years  her  love,  like  sun  on  snow  !  * 
The  Lady  Clementina  look'd  like  Spring, 
Her  Lord  like  Saturn  t  —  but  without  his  wing  ! 

XLII. 

But,  being  a  Peer,  he  was  in  Parliament, 
Discussing  the  two  nations  —  for  the  cloud, 

*This,  to  the  honor  of  the  sex,  is,  in  general,  true.  The 
rich  exceptions,  to  be  sure,  are  of  a  character  somewhat  start 
ling  ;  and  constitute,  at  the  same  time,  a  pretty  large  minority. 

f  Time. 


CANTO  I.  33 

That  had  been  low'ring  over  France,  now  sent 
Its  shadow  o'er  the  Isles !  and  long  and  loud 
The  thunder  of  the  tempest  that  had  rent 
The  Gallic  hills,  came  mutt'ring  in  its  shroud  ! 
Whose  angry  echoes  startl'd  even  Burke, — 
As  you  may  see  by  turning  to  his  work :  — 

XLIII. 

"  Reflections,"  full  of  proud  and  lofty  thought, 
Intemperate,  perchance  —  such  was  the  man ; 
The  elements  within  him  were- so  wrought, 
He  had  renounc'd  his  birth-right  sooner  than 
Conform  to  other  men's  opinions ;  fraught 
With  daring  doubts  his  lost  career  began  ;  * 
Ambition  was  the  main-spring  of  his  mind, 
That  like  a  giant  tower'd  above  his  kind, — 


*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that  allusion  is  here  had  to 
the  political  life  of  the  "  Great  Commoner,"  who  merged  the 
man  of  genius  in  the  politician, 

"And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind." 

The  truth  is,  that  "our  good  Edmund  "  was  as  little  in  his 
proper  element  in  a  House  of  Commons,  as  would  have  been 
Dr.  Johnson  there.  Wraxall  says  he  was  "  continually  cough 
ed  dorcn." 


34  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

XLIV. 

And  taught  him  that  worst  policy,  that  last 

Infirmity  of  Intellect,  disdain 

For  those  in  the  Olympic  race  surpast 

By  his  great  genius  —  not  content  to  reign 

Monarch  of  its  own  world  —  and  one  so  vast ! 

But,  baring  his  bright  weapon  to  the  stain 

Of  earthlier  conflict,  sought  th'  arena,  where,  — 

Like  the  cag'd  Eagle,  barr'd  its  mountain  air ! 

XLV. 

His  mighty  spirit  droop'd  amid  the  throng 

Of  meaner  men,  in  whose  trite  element 

The  wing  that  had  been  wont  to  soar  along 

Its  native  Heaven,  sunk  !  and  loftiest  powers  —  lent 

For  Immortality  !  —  reap'd  wrath  and  wrong 

In  the  dull  crowd,  and  secret  discontent  — 

Since  lost  the  guerdon  of  the  fool,  or  sot, 

Honors  —  more  empty  than  the  bones  that  rot ! 

XL  VI. 

His  Lordship  took  the  lead  in  a  debate 
Which  it  was  thought  might  occupy  the  House 


CANTO  I.  35 

Beyond  its  usual  limits ;  't  was  his  fate 
(He  thought  it  glory  !)  —  always  to  espouse 
The  wrong  side  of  a  subject :  "  He  would  state 
The  question  briefly  ;  and  he  hop'd  his  views, — 

'T would  be  conceded  him" a  general  groan 

Burst  from  the  benches  might  have  chill'd  a  stone  ! 

XLVII. 

But  not  the  placid  gentleman,  I  trow, 

Who  went  on  plunging  in  the  blank  profound 

Of  his  own  fancies ;  and,  when  once  below, 

He  challeng'd  ordinary  minds  to  sound 

The  depth  of  his  analysis  !  and  so,  — 

As  the  Mole  sees  and  searches  under  ground, — 

Pleas'd  with  himself,  he  labor'd  on  his  way, 

For  what  to  them  was  night,  to  him  was  day ! 

XLVIII. 

He  lit  on  error  not  from  chance,  or  choice, 
But  from  an  impulse  he  could  not  control ; 
You  gather'd  from  his  action  and  his  voice, 
The  strong  conviction  that  constrain'd  his  soul ; 


36  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

And  naturally  led  him  to  rejoice 

In  blunders  which  he  manag'd,  on  the  whole, 

T'  expound  so  well  by  rhetoric  and  rule, 

As  serv'd  to  show  the  Statesman  in  the  Fool ! 2 

XLIX. 

Young  Oscar  and  his  lady-love  lay  sleeping  — 

Ah,  happy  —  did  such  sleepers  ne'er  awake  ! 

To  know  and  feel  that  they  have  cause  for  weeping, 

And  learn  how  much  the  hearts  can  bear  that  break ! 

The  trial's  hard,  where  we  must  still  be  keeping, 

Aloof  from  all  that  earth  can  give,  or  take, 

A  single  recollection  —  one  emotion, — 

Deep  at  the  core,  like  rocks  beneath  the  ocean. 

L. 

And  such  the  struggle  Passion  must  sustain, 
When,  side  by  side,  —  no  matter  how  sincere, — 
Love  walks  with  Error  —  for  they  part  in  pain, 
Who  meet  in  guilt !  the  penalty's  severe, 
No  doubt  —  but  we  must  bear  it,  nor  complain  ; 
The  world,  whose  virtue  flames  out  once  a  year, 


CANTO  I.  37 

Still  claims  its  victim,  searM  in  heart  or  thought  — 
Behold,  the  Christian's  car  of  Juggernaut ! 

LI. 

And  thus  we're  doubly  losers  in  the  end, 
Mind,  fortune,  morals,  and  our  youth  expended, 
We  find,  at  last,  that  we  have  got  no  friend  ! 
Where  most  begin,  our  brief  career  has  ended  ;  * 
No  more  on  us  may  those  fond  hopes  descend, 
With  which  the  day-dreams  of  the  boy  were  blended ! 
Sad  thought !  that  in  our  hours  of  self-inspection, 
Occasions  us  some  serious  reflection  ! 

LII. 

You  cannot  couch  the  Intellect,  which  sees 
Darkly,  as  through  a  glass  of  its  own  fashion ; 
And  nurtures,  till  it  grows  into  disease, 
Th1  idiosyncracy  of  pride  and  passion ! 
Born  with  these  failings,  it  subsides  with  these  — 
As  the  grim  Hurricane !  whose  winds  will  dash  on, 

*  "At  nine  and  twenty,"  said  Napoleon  to  Joseph,  "  I  have 
exhausted  every  thing." 


38  THE    GREEK    GIEL. 

Nor  pause,  remorseless  !  till  their  o'er- blown  wrath 
Hath  scatter'd  desolation  in  their  path  ! 

LIII. 

Oscar  appear' d  averse  from  marriage  —  why  ? 

It  might  be  pride  —  a  thing  always  perverse, — 

Kept  him  aloof  from  the  servility 

(For  such  it  is,  or  something  else  still  worse) 

Of  him  who  dangles  in  a  lady's  eye, 

And  vows  his  deep  devotion  —  to  her  purse  ! 

With  well  affected  fervor  plays  his  part, 

Until  the  time  comes  when  he  wrings  her  heart ! 

LIV. 

On  pins,  —  the  hypocrite  !  six  months,  or  so  — 
An  interval  of  feeling  quite  ecstatic ! 
Replete  with  sonnets  full  of  love  and  woe, — 
In  terms,  at  times,  exceedingly  erratic  ; 
Dreading  the  fearful  fiat  of  her  '^No  "  ! 
While  she  her  female  arts,  so  diplomatic, 
Plays  off,  not  valuing  the  fool  a  feather, 
And  in  the  end  rejects  him  altogether ! 


CANTO  I.  39 

LV. 

Or  if  she  takes  him,  after  a  denial, 
Th'  experiment  is  very  soon  decided  ; 
Some  friend  is  sure  to  "  sit  upon  the  trial ," 
By  whom  alone  the  gentle  spouse  is  guided ; 
A  sort  of  moral  and  domestic  dial, 
That  shows  how  love  and  time  should  be  divided ! 
A  monitor  still  faithful  to  her  duty, 
A  miscreant!  bent  on  mischief — 'tis  her  booty. 

LVI. 

The  lady,  being  jealous  of  her  love, 
Or  of  her  dignity,  consults  her  friend, 
Who,  zealous  her  fidelity  to  prove, 
Is  cautious,  always,  never  to  defend ; 
Doubts  and  surmises  into  snares  are  wove, 
To  compass,  for  the  most  part,  some  base  end  ; 
And  thus  between  them  they  contrive  to  fashion, 
Into  proofs  of  guilt,  th'  effects  of  pride,  or  passion. 

LVII. 

The  sex  are  so  extremely  sensitive, 
'Tis  difficult  to  deal  with  them  at  best ; 


40  TUB    GREEK    GIRL. 

And  then  their  pride  exceeds  all  things  that  live  ! 
And  is  the  foe  at  once  to  love  and  rest ; 
It  shocks  the  mind  to  see  such  creatures  grieve ! 
And  when  we  wound  them  —  let  it  be  confest  — 
'Tis  from  some  vicious  quality  of  blood, 
And  hot  that  we  deliberately  could. 

LVIII. 
i 
A  noble  mind  will  anxiously  repair, 

(Provided  she  allows  it)  any  ill, 

A  moment's  pang,  the  slightest  doubt,  or  fear, 

Invading  breasts  we  're  bound  to  cherish  still ! 

A  delicate  task,  no  doubt,  requiring  care, 

Yet  all  who  really  love  possess  the  skill ; 

But  then — aye,  there's  the  rub,  Sir!  she  wo 'n't  let  you, 

When  once  her  mind  is  bent  to  tease  and  fret  you ! 

• 

LIX. 

Which  is  the  case,  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
Where  confidantes  and  mothers  interpose  ; 
Who  fancy  they've  a  right  to  govern  men, 
The  first  from  pique  ;  the  other  —  God  only  knows 


CANTO  I.  41 

What  prompts  her,  save  the  pleasure  of  giving  pain  ! 
Mov'd  by  a  feeling  that  no  longer  glows, 
She  soon  essays  to  make  her  daughter  chilly, 
Who,  thinking  her  wise,  chooses  to  be  silly. 

LX. 

They  do  not  know  (the  fact  is,  they  don't  care) 
The  mental  anguish  their  vile  arts  occasion  ; 
With  rocky  bosoms,  strangers  to  a  tear,  — 
How  should  they  feel,  when  thus  they  plan  th'  invasion 
Of  tenderness !  and  seek  to  banish  there 
An  object  which,  in  spite  of  false  persuasion, 
The  heart  —  that  never  yet  itself  deceiv'd  — 
Still  cherishes  —  devotedly,  though  griev'd  ! 

LXI. 

Alas,  the  broken  image  multiplies, 

In  ev'ry  shatter'd  fragment  still  the  same ! 

And  thy  pale  spectres,  Memory !  arise, 

To  wrap  the  heart  in  unconsuming  flame  ! 

Nurs'd  by  a  source  from  which  in  vain  it  flies  — 

The  thought  that  we  must  share  with  them  the  blame 


42  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Of  having  robb'd  the  Being  we  lov'd  of  rest, 
And  planted  thorns  within  a  human  breast ! 

LXII. 

And  what  remains  ?     Can  either  love  again  ? 
Ah,  no  !  regret,  remorse,  pride  —  all  forbid  ! 
The  portion  that  remains  to  us  of  pain, 
Is  treasur'd  up  —  strange  instinct !  and  still  hid 
By  the  very  knowledge  that  we  've  liv'd  in  vain  ! 
The  Good  have  sorrow'd,  and  the  Wise  have  chid, 
But  neither  prayer  nor  precept  can  restore 
To  the  bruis'd  heart  the  health  it  knew  before. 

LXIII. 

An  "  innocent  flirtation  "  being  the  '  mode,' 
His  "  parts,  his  title,  and  his  perfect  soul," 
Oscar  embark'd  with  one  who  danc'd,  sung,  rode, 
"  Divinely"  !  being,  in  fact,  upon  the  whole, 
Without  a  rival  in  that  bright  abode 
Of  Beauty's  daughters  !  where  the  soft  control 
Of  wedded  love  imparts  a  charm  unknown 
To  Dian,  girded  in  her  icy  zone  !3 


CANTO  I.  43 

LXIV. 

In  one  respect  his  choice  was  a  bad  one, 
It  touch'd  a  friend,  whose  honor  was  his  life  ; 
And  so  the  issue  prov'd  a  very  sad  one  ! 
Not  that  it  implicated  either  wife  — 
For  Oscar,  they  all  took  for  granted,  had  one  ; 
Though,  as  to  that,  so  had  the  "  Thane  of  Fife  "  !  * 
Ambition  led  the  one,  and  love  the  other, 
To  the  same  purple  goal  —  each  slew  a  brother  ! 

LXV. 

O  London  —  but  I  hate  apostrophes 
To  brick  and  mortar  merely  —  London,  then  — 
Though  Wordsworth,  in  a  certain  song  of  his, 
Sings  of  its  "  mighty  heart,"  —  is  but  a  den, 
Like  ev'ry  other  such  place  upon  this 
Dark  earth  and  erring,  of  not  painted  men  ;  t 

*  The  Thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife.  —  Macbeth. 

t  La  Harpe,  in  his  "Course  of  Literature,"  speaks  of  the 
intellectual  "Barbarians"  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
man  of  society,  in  his  social  relations,  is  pretty  much  the  same 
savage  —  that  is,  he  has  all  the  vices,  with  few,  or  none,  of  the 
higher  virtues  that  elevate  the  untutored  character  of  his  Red 
brother  —  in  every  instance,  at  least,  where  the  latter  has  been 
fortunate  enough  to  escape  his  fraternal  hug! 


44  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Rousseau,  and  he,  the  Sage  of  Monticello,  * 
Esteemed  the  Savage  much  the  nobler  fellow  ! 

LXVI. 

And  know  I  not  his  native  manliness, 

His  stern  integrity  of  soul  —  the  faith 

That  sooner  perishes  than  work  out  less 

Than  it  is  pledged  to,  and  his  scorn  of  death  ? 

A  list  of  lofty  virtues,  I  confess, 

Might  make  the  paltry  "  Pale  face  "  hold  his  breath  ; 

Nor  longer  prate  of  bootless  schools  and  colleges, 

His  "  fierce  democraties,"  and  worse  doxologies. 

LXVII. 

London,  awaking  from  its  sleep  of  years, t 
(All  minor  cases  being  mere  interludes,) 
Svvoop'd  down  on  Oscar  with  a  wrath  that  sears 
Excessively  —  so  seldom  it  intrudes  ; 

*  Thomas  Jefferson. 

f  Once  in  seven  years,"  says  Macaulay,  "  our  virtue  becomes 
outrageous.  At  length  our  anger  is  satiated.  Our  victim  is 
ruined,  and  his  heart  broken.  And  our  virtue  goes  quietly  to 
sleep  for  the  next  seven  years." —  Essays:  vol.  1,  p.  334. 


CANTO  I.  45 

Mothers  turn'd  pale,  and  daughters  were  in  tears  ! 
(For  self-love  figures  largely  in  such  feuds  ;) 
When  luckily  a  "  Challenge  "  came,  in  time 
To  save  the  parties  from  lampoons  in  rhyme. 

LXVIII. 

Now  Inez,  to  whom  such  things  were  quite  new, 
Scarce  comprehended  Oscar's  dereliction  ; 
She  had  been  spending  a  few  weeks  at  Kew, 
Where  nature  sports  her  in  the  garb  of  fiction, 
(The  latter  very  often  spoils  the  true  !) 
And  little  had  foreseen  the  great  affliction 
That  now  awaited  her  ;  but  Youth's  elastic, 
And  outlives  shocks  at  times  extremely  drastic  ! 

LXIX. 

O  not  that  human  feeling,  like  the  grass 
Which  grows  beneath  th'  ascending  Pyramid  !  * 
Hath  power  to  renew  itself—  alas, 
Even  as  the  ashes  there,  for  ages  hid 


*  The  "great  Pyramid"  is  as  much  entitled  to  an  Oasis,  as 
was  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  Ammon. 
3 


46  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Consum'd  —  as  shall  that  perishable  mass 
Of  worldly  grandeur  be,  —  it  is  forbid  ! 
And  like  the  fires  of  some  volcanic  isle, 
It  lights  the  flames  of  its  own  funeral  pile ! 

LXX. 

The  knowledge  that  affection  hath  surviv'd 
The  worth  of  that  it  lov'd,  and  loves  —  for  still 
The  heart,  though  deeply  wounded,  worn,  and  griev'd, 
Though  it  recoil  from  the  conviction,  will, 
Even  from  the  fulness  of  its  sense  bereav'd  ! 
Seek  to  extract  some  solace  out  of  ill ; 
And  clings  —  not  to  the  thought  of  what  we  are, — 
But  to  the  memory  of  what  we  were  ! 

LXXI. 

That  lonely  feeling  that  survives,  when  those 
It  loves  are  chang'd,  and  never  can  regain 
The  height  from  which  they  fell !  with  hopes  that  rose 
Only  to  set  in  darkness  and  in  pain, — 
Is  as  the  solitary  flower  that  blows 
And  blooms  above  the  dead  —  it  is  in  vain  ! 


CANTO  I.  47 

It  only  adds  a  keener  edge  to  woe, 
It  only  tells  us  all  is  dust  below  ! 

LXXII. 

Thus  Sorrow  leaves  us  standing  on  the  shore, 
To  see  our  last  sail  shiver'd !  and  the  wave, 
From  the  dark  womb  of  waters,  closing  o'er 
The  founder'd  vessel  we  had  hop'd  to  save  ! 
We  watch  for  those  who  can  return  no  more, 
And  Memory  lights  her  vigil  at  the  grave  ! 
A  heavy  thought,  that  saddens  the  long  day, 
And  lives,  when  all  things  else  have  past  away ! 

LXXIII. 

Though  somewhat  early,  better  'tis  to  die, 
Than  bear  a  discontent  about  the  heart, 
Perhaps  a  grief !  that  would  suppress  the  sigh, 
And  finds  suppression  but  the  bitterer  part ; 
To  watch  the  dear  illusions  as  they  fly ! 
Till  life  becomes  a  cold  and  cheerless  mart ; 
The  past  has  perish'd  !  and  we  feet  no  more 
The  beacon  burns  to  light  us  to  that  shore  ! 


48  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

LXXIV. 

Imprest  with  a  presentiment  of  sorrow, 

Inez  determin'd  to  regain  the  city ; 

And  so  she  started  on  the  very  morrow, 

And  carol'd,  as  she  went,  a  plaintive  ditty, 

As  if  from  song  some  solace  she  could  borrow ; 

She  was,  in  sooth,  fit  subject  for  sad  pity! 

But  check'd  her  sighs,  as,  gather'd  in  each  trace, 

The  Past  re  turn' d  upon  her  with  that  face  ! 

LXXV. 

And  Oscar  met  her  in  the  silvery  night, 
Gliding  with  airy  mantle  round  her  thrown ; 
With  noiseless  step,  and  glance  more  wildly  bright 
Than  the  immortal  radiance  that  shone 
Upon  her  from  above  !  —  earth  has  no  light 
Like  woman's  eye,  no  music  like  her  tone  ! 
In  youth  we  think  so,  when  dispos'd  to  flirt— we 
Are  apt  to  change  our  sentiments  at  Thirty ! 

LXXVI. 

With  trembling  hand,  and  lip  that  quiver'd  still, 
She  tried  to  eat  the  small  wing  of  a  bird  ; 


CANTO  I.  49 

Then  sipp'd  some  chocolate,  that,  like  a  rill, 

Went  gurgling  down  her  sweet  throat,  scarcely  heard ! 

The  effort  independent  of  her  will 

Appeared,  and  statue-like  she  sat,  nor  stirr'd ; 

Her  manner  puzzl'd  you  —  it  was  not  vanity, 

'Twas  something  deeper  —  'twas  true  love's  insanity  ! 

LXXVII. 

It  had  been  settl'd  that  the  combatants 
Should  cross  the  Channel  on  their  deadly  mission  ! 
Which  thus  assum'd  an  air  of  stern  romance, 
Especially  in  men  of  their  condition  ; 
Whether  they  went  to  Flanders  or  to  France, 
Was  kept  a  secret,  to  avert  suspicion ; 
So,  leaving  London  by  a  western  route, 
Oscar  and  Inez  fairly  had  set  out ! 

LXXVIII. 

The  Lovers  saw  St.  Paul's  behind  them  fade, 
And  Piccadilly  brighten  up  before  ! 
They  sigh'd  adieu  to  Burlington  Arcade, 
The  old  Abbey  rear'd  its  towers  high  and  hoar ; 


50  THE    GREEK   GIRL. 

While  on  the  left  lay  Hyde  Park's  gay  parade, 
With  Wellington  in  bronze,  who  fights  no  more  ! 
They  quitted  Kensington,  its  walks  and  Palace  — 
Adieu  to  England  ! — sets  the  wind  for  Calais  ? 

LXXIX. 

A  mingl'd  feeling,  something  like  regret ! 
Stirs  in  the  heart  when  thus  we  're  borne  away 
Forever  from  a  spot  of  earth,  where  yet 
Sorrow,  perchance,  had  sadden'd  each  dull  day ; 
That  very  feeling  dares  us  to  forget ! 
And  when,  at  length,  the  time  arrives  to  say 
"Farewell"! — the  tongue  will  falter,  as  when  we 
Renounce  an  old  friend,  turn'd  new  enemy ! 

LXXX. 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne,  the  Hyde  Park  of  France  — 
But  wanting  thy  grand  Gardens,  Kensington ! 
O  Kensington  —  how  thoughts  at  times  entrance  ! 
To  leave  us,  in  the  end,  where  we  begun  — 
What  ?    Life,  or  a  dream  !  no  matter,  they  enhance 
The  recollections  of  the  course  we  run ; 


CANTO  I.  51 

And,  whether  joy  or  grief  usurp  the  mind, 
These  mental  musings  leave  their  trace  behind  ! 

LXXXI. 

"  Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  Eternity," 
Unbidden  still,  transport  us  to  the  past, 
When  it  had  been  a  happiness  to  die  ! 
Had  we  been  school'd  to  dread  the  worst  and  last 
Of  evils  that  still  prompt  the  hourly  sigh, 
When  all  subsides  !  and  life  itself  seems  cast 
A  weather-beaten  wreck  upon  the  shore, 
Lash'd  by  the  sea  that  it  shall  sail  no  more ! 

Lxxxn. 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne  was  the  place  appointed, 
Where  five  next  morning  was  to  see  them  pitted, 
Like  game  cocks,  dipt  and  close — ay,  and  well  jointed ! 
The  spot  selected  was  extremely  fitted 
For  such  rencounters ;  Chevaliers,  anointed 
With  the  true  unction — men  who  never  quitted 
Their  guard,  or  hold,  and  scorn'd  pacification, 
Had  grac'd  that  rendezvous  of  the  French  nation. 


52  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

.       LXXXIII. 

All  those  who  think,  know  thought  is  busiest,  when — 
The  time  and  place  arrang'd, — we  sit  us  down, 
And  feel  like  victims  singl'd  out  from  men, 
Held  up  as  moral  beacons  to  the  town ! 
With  curious  eyes  surveying  us,  as  then 
They  look'd  on  monsters  whom  they  dar'd  not  own  ! 
The  shrug,  the  whisper,  with — "The  Captain's  got 
His  match,  at  last  —  the  Major 's  a  dead  shot ! " 

LXXXIV. 

Oscar's  immediate  "  Second,"  was  a  man 
Of  grave  demeanor,  and  some  forty  years ; 
Dark  skin,  and  darker  eyes,  that  seem'd  to  scan 
And  read  you  through  !  —  calm,  and  above  all  fears, 
(A  stouter  heart  ne'er  led  Napoleon's  van  !) 
He  had  a  direct  manner,  such  as  wears 
Well  with  the  brave  ;  his  words  were  few,  but  ne'er 
Fell  light  or  unregarded  on  the  ear. 

LXXXV. 

In  youth, — ere  time  had  temper'd  his  warm  blood, — 
His  sword  had  sever'd  several  threads  of  life ; 


CANTO  I.  53 

And  it  was  said  (and  I  believe  on  good 
Authority)  that  in  that  early  strife 
Fell  one  whom,  but  few  hours  before,  he  would 
Himself  have  died  to  save  !     A  pretty  wife 
Had  been  the  unoffending  cause  of  feud, 
And  the  imagin'd  stain  demanded  blood  !  * 

LXXXVL 

And  then,  by  way  of  moral  retribution, 
A  goodly  fortune,  honorably  earn'd, 
Exhausted  in  an  elegant  profusion, 
He  could  no  more  command — the  tide  was  turn'd, 
And  ebb'd  away  his  friends  !     What's  the  solution  ? 
A  very  simple  one,  as  all  have  learn'd, 
Who,  as  the  lawyers  say,  have  "  tried  the  question," 
Whether  a  prison  aids  or  checks  digestion ! 

LXXXVII. 

The  somewhat  singular  coincidence 
Was  mark'd  by  all,  and  should  have  been  averted ; 

*  I  knew  well  the  party  here  described,  and  the  above 
representation  is  literally  true.  From  the  hour  of  that  fatal 
meeting,  he  appeared,  indeed,  to  "  live  a  man  forbid"  ! 


54  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

For  such  things  should  be  govern'd  by  a  sense 
Exceedingly  fastidious,  'tis  asserted  ; 
Whatever  furnishes  the  least  pretence 
For  comment,  or  surmise,  should  be  deserted  ; 
The  practice,  when  'tis  plac'd  in  right  condition, 
Like  Caesar's  wife,  should  be  above  suspicion  ! 

LXXXVIII. 

The  parties  took  their  ground  at  seven  paces, 
A  snap,  or  flash,  to  be  esteem'd  a  shot ; 
The  "Code,"  it  doubtless  will  be  said,  embraces 
No  such  arrangement  —  let  us  ask,  why  not  ? 
A  pistol 's  surer  than  the  hand  it  graces, 
And  may  not  snap  —  a  flash  may  seal  our  lot ! 
And  so  it  turn'd  out,  as  all  such  things  may, 
With  one  of  the  Bellig'rants  in  this  fray. 

LXXXIX. 

The  husband  fell !  —  a  martyr  to  his  folly, — 
And  so  should  foolish  wives  and  husbands  fall ! 
But  from  that  hour  a  settl'd  melancholy 
Descended  on  the  victor,  as  a  pall ! 


CANTO  I.  55 

Shrouding  the  man  in  mystic  musings  wholly  ; 
Life  seem'd  to  wither  from  him  as  a  scroll ! 
The  flash  that  wing'd  the  bullet  through  his  friend, 
Appear'd  to  blast  his  being's  aim  and  end ! 

XC. 

Still,  Paris,  with  its  Tuilleries  and  Louvre, 
Might  yet  restore  him  to  a  pristine  health  ; 
And  his  sweet  Inez !  —  Few  things  seem'd  to  move  her 
In  that  Mosaic  grand  of  Woe  and  Wealth ! 
But  her  .perceptions  were  all  right,  and  prove  her 
Athenian  blood  !    She  saw  Crime  move  in  stealth  ; 
The  infant  Hercules  of  social  error, 
Had  not  yet  quite  matur'd  his  "  Reign  of  Terror " ! 

XCI. 

But  traces  of  his  awful  steps  were  there ! 
The  aspect  of  the  city,  the  whole  clime, 
Bore  marks  of  force,  suspicion,  fraud,  and  fear! 
The  color  and  the  character  of  crime 
Seem'd  as  imprest  upon  the  very  air, 
And  France  grew  pale  at  the  disjointed  time  !  * 

*  The  time  is  out  of  joint.  —  MACBETH. 


56  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

On  ev'ry  column,  with  suspended  breath, 
You  read  the  words,  "  Equality  or  Death  ! " 

XCII. 

'T  was  at  this  crisis  that  the  wild  "  Decree," 
Abolishing,  by  law,  a  "  Future  State," 
Was  known  through  France — this  was  "  Philosophy" ! 
A  word  which  then  had  power  to  awe  the  Great ; 
The  very  watch- word  of  French  'Liberty' — 
Freedom  miscall'd  —  unknown,  or  known  too  late  ! 
O  France  !  thy  mad  career  of  Gain,*  or  Glory, 
Hath  left  thee  but  a  doubtful  page  in  story  ! 

XCIII. 

Old  Brunswick's  "  Manifesto,"  and  Pilnitz, 
Taught  her  to  hope  no  mercy  from  her  foes  ; 
And  England's  War-steeds  'gan  to  champ  their  bits, 
Because  her  neighbors  chose  to  come  to  blows, — 
A  crafty  system,  worthy  of  the  Pitts  ! 
Beyond  subsistence  means  the  mass  still  grows, 

*  Perhaps  I  should  have  written  "  Grain  "  —  which  was 
very  much  in  demand  at  the  time. 


CANTO  I.  57 

And  thus,  to  save  the  populace  from  famine, 
They're  sent  to  fight  the  Turk,  and  teach  the  Brahmin ! 

XCIV. 

The  Anti- Austrian  influence  of  that  day, 
Transmitted  by  Du  Barry,  and  the  Court, — 
Prov'd  ultimately  fatal,  as  they  say, 
To  the  poor  Queen !  who  had,  in  sooth,  a  sort 
Of  terror  and  presentiment  that  lay 
Heavy  at  heart  —  why  did  she  not  retort  ? 
Too  much  the  "  Saint,"  had  Louis  couch'd  the  lance,* 
He  had  redeem'd  his  Bride,  and  rescu'd  France ! 

XCV. 

In  ev'ry  Churchyard,  here  and  there,  a  tree 
Was  planted,  shadowing  the  form  of  "  Sleep," 
That  knew  no  dawn  —  a  blank  Eternity  ! 
There  it  stood  pointing  to  the  Tombs,  where  deep 
The  ashes  slept  of  those  who  ne'er  should  see 
The  light  again  !  a  thing  might  make  one  weep  — 

*  To  arms !    cried  Mortimer,   and  couch'd  his  quiv'ring 
lance.  —  GRAY. 


58  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

But  that  \ve  've  grounds  for  hope  in  our  Avatar, 
Transcending  the  Convention's  "  Imprimatur" ! 

XCVI. 

Oscar  had  luckily  a  friend  in  town, 
Beneath  whose  roof  he  shelter'd  him  a  space  ; 
A  brave  old  Briton,  whom  he  long  had  known, — 
Herville  his  name,  the  last  of  a  proud  race  ; 
A  man  too,  in  his  day,  of  some  renown  ; 
Who  seem'd  as  if  he  struggl'd  to  efface 
Some  vestiges  that  linger'd  from  the  Past  — 
Where  Memory  sat  a  Spectre  'mid  a  waste  ! 

XCVII. 

She  haunts  us  in  our  hours  of  age  and  death,* 
A  guest  that  shakes  the  temple  of  the  Mind  ! 

*  Certainly  in  some  of  its  forms.  Madame  de  Stafil,  speak 
ing  of  a  death-Jed  (it  was  her  own)  says,  that  "  our  ideas  are 
confused." 

In  death  by  drowning,  however,  (not  that  I  speak  from  per 
sonal  experience,  although  I  have  been  a  great  deal  at  sea)  and 
by  other  casualties,  it  is  often  the  reverse  —  as  Shakspeare 
was  aware  when  he  wrote  his  famous  description  of  the 
"  dream,"  in  Richard  III. 


CANTO  I.  59 

Or  the  dread  Siroc,  that,  with  scorching  breath, 
Doth  leave  it  staggering,  and  scath'd,  and  blind  ! 
For,  like  all  other  creditors  beneath 
The  sun,  whom  we  may  meet  with,  we  shall  find 
That  "wracking  Steward,  Remembrance,"*  closest 

clings 
To  those  who  least  can  pay  their  reckonings  ! 

xcvm. 

The  finest  minds,  like  metals,  or  a  kiss, 

Dissolve  the  easiest ;  t  and  stand  no  chance 

Of  getting  on  in  such  a  world  as  this, 

Made  up  of  fools  and  rogues,  who  "  shave  "  and  dance ! 

Whilst  few  things  will  be  found  to  come  amiss 

To  him  whose  brain's  untinctur'd  by  romance  ; 

Give  him  but  competence,  his  spouse  and  glass, 

He'll  " daff  the  world  aside,  and  bid  it  pass." 

XCIX. 

Or  if  his  feelings,  once  in  seven  years, 
Prevail  upon  themselves  to  take  an  airing, 

*  A  phrase  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's. 

f  Pope  somewhere  says  something  to  the  same  effect. 


60  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Seek  they  the  kindred  board  of  him  whose  cares 
A  soul  supreme,  perchance,  is  downward  bearing  ? 
Does  nature's  voice  arrest  his  dull,  cold  ears  ? 
He  goes  upon  a  mission  of  "cheese-paring"! 
To  save  a  brother  ?     No  —  to  squeeze  his  Broker — 
His  daughter  must  be  taught  to  dance  the  Polka ! 

C. 

Yet,  after  all,  money's  the  only  "Good," 

In  this  low  world  of  lucre  and  its  lust ; 

The  Frenchman's  bitter  "  Maxim  "  still  hath  stood 

Its  growid,  in  spite  of  shame,  and  always  must, — 

For  men  can  be  no  better  if  they  would  ; 

Each  learns,  in  time,  the  other  to  distrust, 

And  finds,  of  all  the  things  within  his  range, 

The  only  thing  immutable,  is  "  Change  "  ! 


END  OF  CANTO  I. 


NOTES    TO   CANTO    I. 


NOTE  1.    Page  17. 
Like  the  dread  words  that  shook  M  Assyrian's  soul ! 

I  HAVE  tried  the  two  extremes  of  social  life,  —  the  culti 
vated  city,  and  the  unchartered  wilderness,  —  and,  after  an 
ample  experience  of  the  two,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  deciding 
in  favor  of  the  latter.  In  the  one,  perpetually  perked  up  in 
the  strait-jacket  of  conventional  forms,  and  as  perpetually 
treading  upon  the  sharp  points  of  angry  and  conflicting 
passions,  man  becomes  as  artificial  in  his  feelings  as  his 
wants.  In  the  other,  clad  in  a  loose  and  flowing  robe,  he 
finds  himself  moving  with  step  as  light  as  the  air  he  breathes, 
and  firm  as  the  unfettered  earth  on  which  he  walks.  There 
is,  too,  a  heartiness  in  the  one  sphere,  the  want  of  which  is 
far  from  being  atoned  for  by  what  are  supposed  to  be  the 
comforts  and  elegancies  that  belong  to  the  other. 

In  the  former,  in  short,  our  ideas,  as  to  the  "  fitness  of 
things,"  are  always  upon  a  scale  corresponding  with  that 
vastness  of  domain,  which,  in  a  land  of  stream  and  prairie, 
is  so  well  calculated  to  impart  elasticity  to  the  feelings,  and 
elevation  to  the  thoughts  of  those,  who,  in  the  fulness  of 
health,  and  with  the  spring  of  Hope  as  yet  unbroken  in  their 
bosoms,  go  on  their  way  rejoicing,  like  the  strong  man  in  his 
strength. 

4 


62  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

NOTE  2.     Page  36. 
As  served  to  show  the  Statesman  in  the  Fool ! 

It  is  a  little  remarkable,  that  the  most  eloquent,  perhaps 
the  only  really  eloquent  speaker,  since  the  days  of  Chatham, 
should  have  been  almost  an  uneducated  and  self-taught  man. 
The  "  forest-born  Demosthenes,"  Patrick  Henry,  comes  more 
fully  up  to  the  standard  of  the  great  orators  of  Antiquity, 
than  any  other  name  (unless  we  except  Mirabeau)  of  which 
our  modern  annals  can  boast.  True,  he  arose  amidst  the 
strife  of  great  elements  —  yet  those  elements  seem  to  have 
roused  but  one  master-spirit,  capable  of  wielding  the  thun 
ders,  and  directing  the  lightnings  of  forensic  eloquence. 
There  were,  in  those  "  times  that  tried  men's  souls,'1  other 
minds  of  equal  moral  grandeur,  and  probably  more  capacious  ; 
but  the  suadce  medulla  of  the  poet,  —  the  quintescence  of 
persuasion,  —  seems  to  have  been  preeminently  the  gift  of 
Patrick  Henry.  John  Randolph,  had  he  studied  better  models 
in  oratory,  and  cultivated  a  better  forensic  taste,  might  have 
transmitted  to  posterity  something  more  than  the  shadow  of 
a  name  —  which  is  all  (leaving  out  the  "magni")  that  he  has 
bequeathed  to  us.  "  The  midnight  bell  does  not  toll  for  fire  in 
Richmond,"  said  he,  "but  the  mother  presses  her  infant 
closer  to  her  breast "  —  a  fine  sentence,  of  which  the  "curious 
felicity  "  forms  the  striking  and  strong  merit.  Such  sentences 
abound  in  the  ancient  classics,  terse  and  nervous  ;  and  con 
trast,  in  this  respect,  with  what  may  be  termed  the  highly 
expletive  character  of  our  modern  oratory,  —  a  few  names  of 
severe  masters  ezcepted.  Setting  aside  the  sublime,  the 


NOTES    TO    CANTO    I.  63 

wonderful,  in  eloquence,  there  is,  perhaps,  no  speaker,  of 
the  present  day,  who  can  fairly  be  adduced  as  a  master  of 
the  tender  and  pathetic,  —  with  power 

"  To  tune  his  lips  to  that  soft  rhetoric, 
Which  steals  upon  the  ear,  and  melts  to  pity 
The  heart  of  the  stern  judge." 

It  must  be  owned,  I  think,  that  too  many  of  our  public  men, 
of  both  hemispheres,  seem  to  have  embraced  the  opinion  of 
" Mephistophiles,"  in  the  play,  that  "where  ideas  are  want 
ing,  rcords  come  on  purpose  to  supply  their  place."  There  is, 
assuredly,  nothing  of  the  metis  divinior,  the  impetus  sacer,  — 
the  immensum,  infinitumque,  of  Cicero,  —  in  our  modern  oratory. 
Our  great  men  —  really  and  truly  such  —  seem  to  have  passed 
away  with  the  occasions  that  produced  them.  No  matter  how 
stirring  the  theme,  should  a  speaker  of  the  present  day  ven 
ture  to  touch  those  loftier  chords  that  vibrate  in  "  quick 
bosoms,"  the  cry  of  "Moderation"  (like  that  of  "Treason," 
in  the  Virginia  Assembly,  when  Henry  introduced  his  famous 
revolutionary  "  Resolutions '')  would  most  probably  be 
heard  from  the  lips  of  his  practical  hearers  (with  the  Utilita 
rians  everything  that  is  not  trite,  is  impractical)  in  this  age 
of  Steam,  when  the  object  seems  to  be  to  render  mental 
operations  as  cheap,  speedy,  and  facile,  as  are  those  of  our 
thirty-mile-an-hour  railroads. 

These  moderns  might  do  well  to  bear  in  mind  the  reply  of 
the  Frenchman  to  his.  friend,  who,  recommending  to  him,  on 
some  occasion  shortly  after  their  first  Revolution,  to  use  "  more 
moderation,"  received,  in  reply,  the  following:  —  "On  parle 
tant  de  la  moderation  ;  ma  foi,  Monsieur !  on  n'a  pas  pris  la 
Bastille  avec  de  la  limonade." 


64  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

NOTE  3.     Page  42. 
To  Dian,  girded  in  her  icy  zone .' 

How  few  young  ladies  understand  the  art  of  pleasing ! 
Like  wax  figures,  or  that  "frozen  music,"  to  which  archi 
tecture  has  been  likened  (a  comparison  ascribed  to  Madame 
de  Stae"!)  they,  in  general,  address  themselves  exclusively 
to  the  eye  —  forgetting  that,  whether  in  the  drawing-room, 
or  the  parlor,  manner  is  of  more  importance  than  matter  — 
by  which  I  mean  mere  physical  advantages.  A  very  expert 
dandy,  whom  I  once  knew,  was  wont  to  say  —  in  speaking  of 
what  are  called  "  fine  persons,"  (not  being  an  Apollo  himself) 
"Figure  is  nothing  —  attitude  is  all  "  !  Now,  in  the  case  of 
all  young  ladies,  personal  charms,  however  charming,  like  the 
•'figure"  of  my  friend,  are,  comparatively,  nothing  —  man 
ner,  like  his  "  attitude,  is  all."  The  daughter  of  Necker,  by 
means  of  this  "manner"  (for  she  was  without  beauty)  threw 
her  celestial  friend,  Madame  Recaruier,  in  the  shade.  It  was 
manner,  and  not  her  great  talents,  that  did  it.  Ease  is  neces 
sary  to  manner,  which  is  the  reason  why  so  few  young  ladies 
possess  the  latter  —  as  it  is  impossible  to  be  at  one's  ease, 
where  the  attention  is  engrossed  with  appearances.  Plain 
women  are  usually  agreeable,  because  they  cultivate  manner, 
in  the  absence  of  personal  charms.  Another  false  idea  is, 
that  young  ladies  should  never  "  comevout  "  in  conversation  — 
that,  like  children,  they  are  to  be  seen,  not  heard.  These  are 
the  results  of  a  want  of  true  refinement.  For  all  such,  Paris 
is  the  best  school. 


THE   GREEK    GIRL. 


CANTO  II. 


THE  GREEK  GIRL. 


CANTO  II. 
* 

THE  womb  of  Glory,  and  alike  the  grave, 
O  France,  thy  sun  went  down  upon  his  tomb  !  * 
First  in  the  field,  the  idol  of  the  Brave, 
Reluctant  justice  ratified  his  doom  ! 
Who  came,  in  evil  hour,  to  curse,  not  save 
Thy  people  from  convulsion's  guilt  and  gloom ; 
The  ghosts  of  slaughter'd  millions  mark'd  his  state, 
And  shriek'd  —  "  The  desolator  desolate  !" 


*  Napoleon.    The  "sun"  referred  to,  is  that  of  military, 
not  moral  glory. 


68  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

II. 

And  she,  the  early  partner  of^flPthrone, 
Whose  virtues  lent  a  ray  to  pierce  its  gloom, 
How  amply  Fate  aveng'd  her  —  groan  for  groan  ! 
The  purple  tyrant  in  his  sea-girt  tomb, 
Had  felt  her  bitter  exile  made  his  own ; 
She  shar'd  his  diadem,  and  he  her  doom  ; 
Fore-shadow'd, — when,  in  hour  of  unmixt  evil, 
An  Angel  link'd  her  fortunes  with  a  Devil ! ' 

III. 

Celestial  genius,  faculties  akin 

To  inspiration  —  and  the  field  how  vast ! 

The  "  heroes  of  Humanity  "  *  had  been 

Triumphant  over  error  in  this  last 

Great  argument !  and  Washington  —  serene 

In  glory  t  —  had  beheld  the  mighty  past, — 


*"  Nations,"  said  Mirabeau,  "should  mourn  none  but 
their  benefactors ;  and  regret  no  others  but  the  heroes  of 
humanity." 

f  If,  in  the  annals  of  human  greatness,  there  be  one  char 
acter  more  luminous  than  another  —  lending  its  mingled 


CANTO    II.  69 

Bcqueath'd  as  Freedom's  latest  legacy, — 
Renew'd  again,  Napoleon,  in  thee  ! 

IV. 

Such  might  have  been  the  picture  !  but  thou  didst 
Prefer  that  guilty  eminence  that  made 
The  name  of  tyrant  hated  in  the  midst 
Of  tyranny  —  then  wither'd  in  the  shade! 
Imperial  Suicide  !  who  madly  hid'st 
The  light  which  nature  gave  thee,  to  degrade 
Her  image,  when  thou  play'dst  the  murderer's  part, 
And  struck  the  guiltless  Bourbon  to  the  heart !  * 

lights  of  genius,  valor,  and  a  lofty  patriotism,  to  a  nation's 
history,  and  throwing  into  the  shade,  from  its  "excessive 
bright,"  the  lesser  luminaries  that  from  time  to  time  have 
set  their  watch  in  the  political  firmament  of  ages,  it  is  that 
of  Washington.  But  what  pen  can  hope  to  do  justice  to  it  ? 
Envy  grows  pale  as  it  contemplates  that  character ;  and  Vir 
tue  feels  that  it  were  superfluous  to  offer  to  it  the  incense  of 
its  praise.  View  it  under  what  aspect  we  may,  its  surpassing 
moral  grandeur  overpowers  the  mind,  and  awes  it  into  reve 
rential  wonder  !  Vir  magnanime  !  Vir  fortissime  !  Junior 
Brute ! 

*  Execution  of  the  Duke  d'Enghein. 


70  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

V. 

• 

How  different  his,  the  great  Samaritan 

Of  human  rights  !  who  came  to  save,  not  slay  ; 

How  flam'd  his  sword  Seraphic  in  the  van 

Where  Freedom's  Goddess  bent  her  radiant  way, 

The  just  made  perfect  in  one  matchless  Man ! 

But  the  great  theme  hath  led  my  Muse  astray, 

A  native  of  these  gardens  of  his  glory  — 

But  this  and  these  are  foreign  from  my  story :  — 

VI. 

Herville,  the  drop  of  nature  from  his  eye 
Had  brushM  away,  half  sorrow,  and  half  joy  ; 
With  step  still  firm,  a  mien  and  manner  high, 
He  almost  dcem'd  himself  again  a  boy ! 
He  spoke  of  England,  and  represt  a  sigh  ! 
Something  the  recollection  seem'd  t'  alloy  ; 
And  with  a  smile,  unfitting  where  seen  most, 
He  chang'd  the  subject,  as  became  the  Host. 

VII. 

But  he  had  scarce  time  to  advert  to  France, 
Ere  violence  and  uproar  had  ensued  ! 


CANTO    II.  71 

It  somewhat  startl'd  them  to  see. advance 
Arm'd  Ruffians,  whose  manner  menac'd  blood  ! 
Herville  inferr'd  their  business  at  a  glance ; 
Oscar  the  hint  took,  and  prepar'd  for  feud — 
"Seal'd  Orders"  !  be  my  answer  in  my  sword. 
And  the  men  took  the  Noble  at  his  word. 

VIII. 

Shiver'd  its  blade,  his  pistol  next  he  graspt — 
The  sharp  shot  clatt'ring  splinter'd  one  man's  thigh ; 
Another  deem'd  his  prey  safe  as  he  claspt 

Mute  Inez Oscar  fell'd  him  instantly  ! 

The  old  Briton  fought  till  for  breath  he  gasp'd ! 
Determin'd  like  a  man,  at  least,  to  die  ;  — 
"  Seize  the  Aristocrats  !  nor  let  them  pass  — 
Summon  a  coach  —  I'll  answer  for  the  Lass." 

IX. 

Through  gloomy  chambers  to  a  cell  remote 
Oscar  was  dragg'd  —  when,  opening  a  door, 
Whose  rusty  hinges,  sharp  and  grating,  smote 
Upon  his  ear,  without  ceremony  more, 


72  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

He  was  thrust  in — the  bolt  shut  sharply  as  a  shot, 
And  twang'd  again !  which  prov'd  it  was  secure  ; 
He  heard  their  lone  and  echoing  steps  depart, 
Which  seem'd  the  knell  of  Hope  unto  his  heart ! 

X. 

A  somewhat  sudden  and  quite  harsh  transition 
To  Oscar  prov'd  this  strange  incarceration ! 
He  relish'd  by  no  means  his  forc'd  condition ; 
But  the  "  New  Order"  had  upset  the  Nation, 
And  blood,  like  water,  shed  without  contrition  ; 
Despairing  of  his  Throne,  and  head's  salvation, 
Louis  for  Austria  had  quitted  France, 
A  flight  by  some  thought  not  th'  effect  of  chance.* 

XI. 

Amazement  sat  upon  his  silent  soul, 
Left  thus  at  once  to  solitude  and  thought ! 

*  Planned,  most  probably,  by  Lafayette,   whose   abortive 
efforts  at  averting  an  unjust  doom  from  the  most  interesting 

Royal  group  on  the  historic  canvass,  appear  to  have  been  the 

• 
result  of  a  "  Decree." 


CANTO    II.  73 

His  fears  for  Inez  lost  him  all  control  — 

He  felt  his  senses  whirl !  —  his  brain  was  wrought 

Almost  to  phrenzy's  pitch  !  when,  to  console 

His  heart  and  head,  all  suddenly  was  brought 

A  flood  of  gushing  tears,  that  gave  relief 

To  his  o'erclouded  senses,  steep'd  in  grief. 

XII. 

The  airy  webs  of  spiders  vail'd  the  roof, 
That  hung  above  him  like  a  horrid  tomb ! 
Strange  sights  were  trac'd  along  the  wall  —  sad  proof 
That  other  victims  there  had  met  their  doom  ! 
The  characters  were  such  as  from  the  woof 
Of  minds  disorder'd  sprung,  we  may  presume  ; 
Despair  and  Madness  various  figures  drew, 
Whilst  Love  the  cherish'd  name  still  trac'd  in  view ! 

XIII. 

A  wooden  stool,  and  table  made  of  stone, 
A  model  Guillotine  and  desk,  were  all 
The  furniture  contained  within  that  lone 
And  damp  apartment,  somewhat  deep,  though  small  ; 


74  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

The  desk  was  quite  superfluous  to  one 
Depriv'd  of  ink  and  paper  !  and  to  call 
Would  but  have  wak'd  an  echo  long  and  loud, 
To  startle  Silence  from  his  dreamy  shroud ! 

XIV. 

A  blear-ey'd  and  bloodthirsty-looking  devil 

Now  enter'd,  bringing  in  a  jug  of  water ; 

Stifling  his  rage,  and  trying  to  seem  civil, 

Oscar  enquir'd  of  Inez  —  "  The  Lord's  daughter  ?  " 

"The  same,"  said  Oscar  —  "Where  she  can't  work 

evil ! 

Don't  be  concern'd,  you  '11  all  be  brought  to  slaughter," 
(And  here  he  gnash'd  his  teeth,  and  clench'd  his  fist,) 
"So  soon  as  they  have  got  through  with  the  List." 

XV. 

"The  list ! — to  slaughter ! — why,  what  is't  ye  mean?  " 
"  Ask  me  no  questions  —  you  may  learn  to-morrow." 
Turning  the  key,  the  wretch  was  gone  :  His  lean 
Figure  and  words  struck  Oscar  dumb  with  horror ! 


CANTO    II.  75 

He  scarce  believ'd  what  he  had  heard  and  seen, 
And  mute  amazement  left  no  room  for  sorrow ; 
"  Imprison'd  thus,  and  threaten'd  here  with  death  "  — 
Chok'd  by  the  words,  he  almost  gasp'd  for  breath ! 

XVI. 

His  limbs  being  free  (the  Jacobins  relied 
Less  upon  chains,  than  on  their  bolts  and  bars)  — 
Oscar  approach'd  his  iron  grate,  and  spied 
A  man  whose  face  appear'd  enseam'd  with  scars, 
His  forehead  in  a  crimson  'kerchief  tied, — 
(No  honorable  wounds,  obtain'd  in  wars  !) 
Who  at  a  window  stood,  some  three  feet  thick, 
Just  opposite  —  a  prison  made  of  brick. 

XVII. 

T/he  man  made  signs  to  him,  though  all  unknown 
Their  character,  —  which  Oscar  took  amiss  ; 
And  so  he  question'd  him,  in  turn,  in  tone 
So  loud,  as  to  arrest  the  ears  of  his 
Infernal  Keeper  !  who,  as  wolves  are  prone 
To  seize  their  prey,  rush'd  on  him  —  "What  is  this.^" 


76  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

His  hand  grasp'd  Oscar's  throat,  with  fiendish  frown ,- 
"  Hold  off!"  said  Oscar,  and  he  knock'd  him  down 

XVIII. 

The  scuffle  made  some  noise  —  the  rascal  yell'd 
Like  beaten  hound,  when  lapping  the  stag's  blood  ; 
His  wrath  was  soon  appeas'd,  and  fears  dispell'd, 
And  Oscar  now  repented  of  his  mood, 
His  passion,  in  its  turn,  as  quickly  quell'd : 
The  fellow  had  his  creatures  —  some  six  good 
And  sturdy  rogues  now  came  to  his  relief — 
Butchers  by  trade  were  four,  the  sixth  a  thief ! 

XIX. 

With  very  little  ceremony  seiz'd 

They  now  got  Oscar  down  upon  the  floor, 

And  tightly  o'er  his  wrists  the  cords  they  squeez'd  , 

Two  limbs  were  not  enough,  they  bound  the  four  — 

The  last  with  rivets,  which,  had  they  been  greas'd, 

Had  left  his  limbs,  perhaps,  not  quite  so  sore  : 

Thus  manacl'd  they  dragg'd  him  to  some  straw, 

Half  dead  with  pain  and  passion,  as  they  saw. 


CANTO    II.  77 

XX. 

And  so  they  left  him,  to  attend  the  "  New 
Comers,"  as  they  are  call'd,  or  "New  Arriv'd"  — 
As  Pollok,  prais'd  in  many  a  Review, 
For  writing  nonsense  —  styles  one  who  contriv'd 
To  mount  above  the  seventh  Heaven's  blue ! 
A  height  beyond  the  Bard's  flight,  had  he  liv'd  ; 
Obnoxious,  rather,  to  Minerva's  curse, 
A  fanatic  more  flagrant  than  his  verse ! 

XXL 

High  o'er  the  waters  of  the  purple  Seine, 
And  girted  by  a  verdant  terrace  round, 
A  gloomy  mansion  rose  —  fit  haunt  of  men 
Who  seem  to  have  risen  from  the  deep  profound 
Of  Milton's  ruin'd  Angels  !  —  once  the  den 
Of  him  whose  name  struck  terror  in  the  sound, 
That  echo'd  death  !  —  the  mighty  Mountaineer, 
The  secret,  bloody,  well  dress'd  Robespierre !  * 

*  This  amiable  Attorney  went  about  his  butcheries  in  the 
streets  of  Paris,  dressed,  says  the.  historian,  "in  a  rose- 
color'd  silk  vest,  and  a  coat  of  the  softest  blue ! " 

5 


78  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

XXII. 

His  fatal  footsteps  trod  its  halls  no  more, 
Another  presence  fill'd  them  —  Pleasure  threw 
Its  light  o'er  scenes  where  darkness  dwelt  of  yore, 
And  other  sights  and  sounds  now  met  the  view ; 
Love's  votaries  bow'd  where  victims  knelt  before  ! 
And  all  bespoke  the  reign  of  things  call'd  "  New  ;" 
Such  was  the  mansion,  in  that  guilty  day, 
Where  dwelt  th'  Inspector  of  Police,  Marais  ! 

XXIII. 

Sofas  of  silk,  all  fring'd  with  gold,  to  suit 
The  drapery  of  the  walls,  around  were  set ; 
With  various  instruments  of  sound  —  the  lute, 
The  deep-ton'd  harp,  and  softest  flagelet ; 
Terror  had  touch'd  the  chords,  and  they  were  mute  ! 
Death-like,  as  her  whose  marble  eyes  they  met, 
And  fix'd  as  with  the  power  of  a  spell  — 
A  sound  had  seem'd  unto  her  heart  a  knell ! 

XXIV. 

And  pale  and  motionless  sat  Inez  there  ! 
Untempted  by  the  tempting  fruits  and  ices, 


CANTO    II.  79 

Liqueurs,  and  other  very  dainty  fare, 
Design'd  to  serve  his  devilish  devices, 
Who,  doubtless,  would  be  ready  to  appear, 
In  proper  person,  at  the  proper  crisis  ; 
With  soft,  quick  step,  Marais  now  enter'd  in, 
As  enter'd  in  the  sinless  garden,  Sin !  * 

XXV. 

A  crimson  tint  an  instant  ting'd  her  cheek, 
As,  slowly  rising  from  the  couch,  she  stood 
Cold  as  the  marble  of  her  matchless  Greek, 
As  ice  were  in  her  veins,  instead  of  blood  ! 
With  lip  comprest,  she  made  her  manner  speak, 
Immortal  in  her  air  and  attitude  ! 
Th'  Inspector  paus'd  a  moment,  to  survey 
His  victim,  and  then  said, — "  You  see  Marais  ! 

XXVI. 

Inspector  of  Police,  and  Prisons,  too ; 
You  are  in  Paris,  Madame,  where  the  block 

*  The  sinless  garden  is  here  intended  to  be  represented  in 
the  person  of  the  innocent  Inez. 


80  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

And  axe,  are  call'd  the  Guillotine.     Have  you 
Yet  heard  the  name  ? "     A  momentary  shock 
Pass'd  o'er  her  form  and  features  —  but  she  drew 
Her  figure  to  its  height,  firm  as  the  rock ! 
And,  without  falt'ring,  she  replied,  —  "What  then? 
I  am,  at  least,  in  the  abode  of-  men  ?  " 

XXVII. 

"  You  live,  too,  Madame,  in  the  age  of  '  Reason'  — 
Their  Chivalry  we  leave  to  other  lands ; 
Women  have  prov'd  the  frequent  source  of  treason, 
And  govern  men,  —  their  hearts,  if  not  their  hands,* 
An  evil  that  should  be  redress'd  in  season  ; 
To  upper  air  appealing,  there  She  stands  !"f 
He  said,  and  —  pointing  to  an  unveil'd  figure, — 
Drew  forth  a  pistol,  prim'd,  and  set  the  trigger  ! 

*  The  Prefect  seems  to  have  borrowed  the  opinion  of  Lord 
Kaimes,  who,  somewhere  in  the  second  volume  of  his 
"Sketches,"  says:  —  "Women  have  less  patriotism  than 
men ;  and  less  bitterness  against  the  enemies  of  their  coun 
try."  The  absence  of  "bitterness,"  however,  may  not  be 
incompatible  with  the  purest  patriotism. 

f  Statue  of  the  "  Goddess  of  Liberty." 


CANTO    II.  81 

XXVIII. 

Inez  here  sought  the  window,  scarcely  knowing 
The  thing  she  did,  nor  uttering  a  word ; 
The  voice  of  a  great  multitude  was  blowing 
A  perfect  hurricane,  the  stones  that  stirr'd  ! 
The  truth  flash'd  on  her!  and,  one  look  bestowing, 
She  clos'd  her  eyes,  but  not  her  ears  —  which  heard 
The  trembling  rattle  of  the  axe,  and  then 
The  instant  stroke  —  which  seem'd  to  say,  '  Amen  ! ' 

XXIX. 

"  Herville  has  paid  his  debt  to  the  Convention, 
If  not  to  nature,"  coolly  said  Marais. 
Inez,  who  had  been  sinking,  at  the  mention 
Of  Oscar's  friend,  compos'd  her  late  dismay, 
And  summon'd  all  her  soul  in  one  last  tension 
Of  nerves  that  seem'd  as  fitted  then  to  slay  ! 
As,  with  a  smile,  she  said,  —  though  full  of  wo  — 
"  Pray  tell  me,  do  you  treat  the  women  so  ?  " 

XXX. 

The  question  touch'd  him  just  as  she  intended, 
She  saw  it,  and  then  added,  —  "  There  is  one, 


82  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Quite  young,  I  could  have  wish'd  to  have  befriended — 
Is  he  still  living  ?  "     "  Ay,  Madame,  where  none 
Can  save  him  —  his  last  day  is  nearly  ended  ; 
To-morrow  sees  the  set  of  his  last  sun  ! 
When  this  small  key  unlocks  his  cell  again, 
Mis  name  is  stricken  from  the  roll  of  men !  " 

XXXI. 

"  We  have  a  Mother.      I  should  like  to  bear 
An  only  son's  last  words  to  her."     Marais 
Sought  vainly  to  suppress  the  Demon's  leer, 
As,  taking  her  soft  hand,  as  if  in  play, 
He  said,  or,  rather,  whisper'd  in  her  ear,  — 
"  That  boon  'tis  mine  to  grant,  if  you  will  pay, 
Freely,  the  price  I  ask  for  it  —  'tis  this, — 
The  purchase  of  his  freedom  in  a  kiss !  " 

XXXII. 

"  Nay,  soft !  our  compact 's  scarcely  yet  begun  — 
His  freedom  ?  "    "  Ay."    "  A  thousand  such  arc  yours ! 
Only  first  tell, me  how  may  this  be  done  ?  " 
"  I  hold  the  keys  of  all  the  Corridors." 


CANTO    II.  83 

"  And  that  unlocks  his  cell  ? "     "  That  is  the  one." 
"  But  how  do  you  approach  the  outer  doors  ? 
How  from  the  yard  ?"  —  Deeming  he'd  won  the  goal, 
Marais  proceeded  to  explain  the  whole. 

XXXIII. 

"  A  passport  will  be  needed  —  it  is  here. 
Thus  the  first  coach  conducts  you  from  this  slough 
Of  Horror,  that  infests  the  very  air ! 
But,  mark !  the  Commune's  records  bear  my  vow 
Of  fealty,  seal'd  in  blood,  to  Robespierre  ! 
My  name  must  then — you  understand  ? — And  now"  — 
Rapid  as  light,  than  the  swift  wind  more  fleet, 
A  Persian  dagger  laid  him  at  her  feet ! 

XXXIV. 

To  seize  the  keys  —  the  passport  —  and  assume 
The  garb  of  that  base  tool  of  baser  men ; 
To  fly  the  dread  infection  of  that  room, 
That  hung  above  her  like  a  frightful  den  ! 
And  issue  forth  into  the  midnight  gloom, 
Were  but  the  work  of  one  brief  instant  —  when, 


84  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Love  on  her  lip,  and  triumph  in  her  eye, 
She  stood  by  Oscar,  like  a  Mystery ! 

XXXV. 

"  Inez  ! "  —  that  dear  name  started  to  his  lips, 
Intense  and  burning !  —  From  his  waken' d  brain 
Pass'd  suddenly  away  the  dim  eclipse 
Of  its  despair,  and  Rapture  broke  his  chain  ! 
Forgotten  was  the  hand,  hard  by,  that  nips 
Love's  opening  flowers !  but  Inez  not  in  vain 
Had  perill'd  all !  —  and,  with  a  woman's  tact, 
Made  up  for  much  her  wond'ring  lover  lack'd  : 

XXXVI. 

"  Does  Herville  live  ?  "     "  Ay,  in  a  better  world ! " 

"  Why,  Inez,  there  is  blood  upon  thy  hand ! 

And  they  have  kill'd  him  ?     May  black  vengeance, 

hurl'd 

From  heaven,  heave  with  throes  this  guilty  land  ! 
And  in  what  nest  were  thy  sweet  pinions  furl'd, 
When  borne  away  by  that  accursed  band  ! 
Have  they  relented,  and  thus  set  thee  free  ? 
But  whence  this  blood  ?  "    "  Oscar  !  'twas  shed  for  thee. 


CANTO    II. 

XXXVII. 

No  time  is  to  be  lost !  —  Nay,  quickly  —  come  ! " 
They  reach'd  the  long,  dim  gallery,  as  wan'd 
The  wond'rous  star,  themselves  as  pale  and  dumb ; 
The  Keeper  deem'd  that  Oscar  was  arraign'd 
Before  the  Commune  —  "  That's  the  signal  drum," 
He  dryly  said.     The  fugitives  now  gain'd 
The  outer  gate  —  when  Oscar,  freed  his  lair, 
Felt  the  first  freshness  of  th'  unfetter'd  air ! 

XXXVIII. 

Pursuing  purposely  a  devious  route, 
The  parties  reach'd  first  Brussels,  then  the  Hague  ; 
Poor  Inez  was  most  thoroughly  worn  out ! 
And  still  appear'd  to  labor  under  vague 
Presentiments  of  evil !  caus'd,  no  doubt, 
By  what  she'd  suffer'd  from  the  moral  plague 
They  had  escap'd  in  that  infernal  city ! 
Which  Wilson  should  have  chosen  for  his  ditty.* 

*  "  City  of  the  Plague." 


86  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

XXXIX. 

And  yet,  —  so  strong  is  human  vanity, — 

Although  the  tocsin  hourly  beat  to  arms 

In  that  Golgotha  !  and  the  midnight  cry 

Of  victims  followed  the  day's  fierce  alarms ; 

And  Austria  saw  her  fair-hair'd  Daughter  die, 

And  such  a  death !  —  still  Paris  had  its  charms 

For  Anne,  Maria,  Louise,  Germaine  Necker, 

In  wit,  words,  works,  an  absolute  "  Three-Decker"  ! 

XL. 

In  a  few  months  the  Lovers  whirl'd  along, 
On  rapid  wheels,  upon  the  self-same  road 
They  had  so  lately  travers'd  under  strong 
Emotion,  little  lighten'd  of  its  load  ! 
To  Inez  seem'd  renew'd  a  sense  of  wrong  ; 
She  fear'd  the  whirlwind  !  since  in  that  abode 
The  winds  were  sown !  and  on  her  ear  now  fell 
The  name  of  London,  like  a  midnight  bell ! 

XLI. 

It  is  a  most  uncomfortable  feeling 
To  be  returning  where  no  hearts  make  home  ! 


CANTO    II.  87 

To  feel,  in  fact,  as  if  we  had  been  stealing, 
On  the  first  glimpse  of  some  familiar  dome  ! 
The  footstep  falters,  and  the  head  goes  reeling, 
As  the  first  face  glares  on  us  like  a  Gnome  ! 
One's  friends  recede,  ingenious  in  devices, 
When  one's  affairs  have  reach'd  what 's  call'd  a 
"  Crisis  " ! 

XLII. 

Something  like  this  emotion  cross'd  the  brain 
Of  Oscar,  as  they  rumbled  into  town ; 
He  struggl'd  to  dismiss  it,  but  in  vain  — 
His  sun  he  felt  was  gone,  or  going,  down  ! 
And  could  he  hope  it  would  emerge  again  ? 
Mankind,  he  knew,  were  wont  to  smile,  or  frown, 
As  Fortune  doth  decree  our  rise,  or  fall, — 
In  that  respect  the  rogues  are  Courtiers  all ! 

XLIII. 

To  touch  his  purse  is  touching  man  too  nearly, 
He  shrinks  instinctively,  and  bids  you,  hold  ! 
All  human  ties  are  light,  when  balanc'd  fairly 
Against  that  tendency,  in  young  or  old  ; 


88  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Sheridan  earn'd  this  knowledge  somewhat  dearly, — 
His  sky  grew  cloudy,  and  his  friends  grew  cold  ! 
For  debts  and  duns  are  sure  to  render  chilly 
The  air  of  Bond  street  and  of  Piccadilly. 

XLIV. 

"  Put  money  in  thy  purse  " !  an  empty  purse, 
At  all  times  sad,  is  saddest  to  a  Lover ! 
That  fierce  pursuit  won't  always  reimburse, 
As  we  experience  when  the  chase  is  over ! 
An  awkward  interval,  and  sometimes  worse  ;  — 
The  heart,  made  wise  too  late  !  will  then  discover 
A  Serpent  coilM  beneath  that  soft  illusion, 
Which  leaves  us  bankrupts  —  sometimes  a  contusion  ! 

JLV. 

Oscar's  estate,  (friends  he  had  none,)  a  name, 
Both  goodly  in  their  time,  were  now  o'erclouded, 
Eclips'd  by  the  dark  smoke  from  that  fierce  flame ! 
Wherein  the  few  hopes  he  had  left  lay  shrouded ; 
That  never  more  may  reascend  the  same 
Sad  eminence,  on  which  in  youth  they  crowded  ; 


CANTO    II.  89 

So  flowers  deck  the  cold  Volcano's  brow, 
Till  scorch'd  by  the  red  lava-flood  below ! 

XLVI. 

Consum'd  in  their  own  flames,  the  passions  freeze, 
The  ice-plants  of  the  soul !  and  with  them,  too, 
In  that  cold  region  wither'd,  the  mind's  peace ! 
A  thing  not  quite  so  easy  to  renew,  — 
For,  being  the  forfeit  of  a  deep  disease,2 
Although  its  symptoms  may  be  quell'd,  how  few, — 
Whatever  be  their  skill  in  learned  laws, — 
Have  wit  enough  to  remedy  the  cause. 

X-LVII. 

The  patient,  being  oblig'd  to  minister 
Unto  himself — poor  fellow!  has  recourse, — 
In  order  that  the  mind  may  not  recur 
Too  painfully  to  subjects  of  remorse, — 
To  arguments  from  which  you  would  infer 
Somewhat  abated  of  regret  the  force  ; 
Alas !  in  spite  of  each  preceptive  pill, 
The  pulse  beats  high  within  the  temples  still  !3 


90  THE   GREEK   GIRL. 

XLVIII. 

Oscar  determin'd  London  to  avoid  — 
He  lov'd  the  country,  —  that  is,  rural  life  ; 
Its  breezy  woods  and  waters  never  cloy'd, 
But,  like  a  gentle,  young,  and  blooming  wife, 
Are  a  perpetual  pleasure  unalloy'd, 
Upon  whose  bosom  we  repose  from  strife ; 
A  voice  like  music  floats  o'er  yonder  hill, 
And  whispers  to  the  passions,  "  Peace  !  be  still." 

XLIX. 

Inez  herself  was  like  a  vesper  hymn, 
Borne  by  the  breeze  along  sequester'd  vale  ; 
When  rous'd,  she  had  a  deal  of  what's  call'd  "I-I' 
As  I  have  shown  already  in  this  tale  : 
But  she  began  to  droop  —  her  eye  grew  dim, 
And  her  fair  cheek  became  as  marble  pale  ; 
Some  unseen  canker  was  at  work  within  — 
Her  very  love  appear'd  to  her  a  sin ! 

L. 

They  went  to  Bath,  and,  finally,  to  Brighton, 
Drank  of  its  waters,  and  inhal'd  its  air ; 


CANTO    II.  91 

But  too  much  company  appear'd  to  heighten 
What  took  the  semblance  of  a  fix'd  despair ! 
The  slightest  things  would  agitate  and  frighten 
A  frame  whose  first  shock  had  been  given  by  fear ! 
And  the  unseated  mind  now  seem'd  to  borrow 
Involuntary  images  from  Horror ! 

LI. 

The  place  was  manifestly  one  not  fitted, 

In  any  view  of  it,  to  mitigate 

A  malady  that  rarely  intermitted, 

And  had  reduced  her  at  a  rapid  rate  ; 

So  speedily  its  sea-girt  walks  they  quitted ; 

But,  ah,  vain  change  —  "  who  can  control  his  fate  !  " 

A  viewless  hand  those  delicate  strings  had  swept, 

And  all  was  discord  !  —  Oscar  saw,  and  wept ! 

LII. 

Time,  and  the  solace  of  repose,  it  may  be, 
Would  overthrow  the  things  that  had  o'erthrown  her; 
So  they  betook  them  to  a  distant  Abbey, 
On  special  summons  of  its  wealthy  owner ; 


92  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

In  its  exterior  though  somewhat  shabby, 
Magnificent  within ;  and  there,  if  shown  her 
That  gentleness  which  turneth  away  wrath, 
Health  might  again  walk  with  her  in  her  path. 

LIII. 

A  verddnt  lawn  embrac'd  the  Abbey  round,4 
And  was  its  base  ;  descending  you  survey, 
Fronting  an  esplanade,  or  lower  ground, 
The  vaulted  domes  of  grottoes,  that  display 
Art's  decorations,  from  the  grave  profound 
Of  her  inspir'd  efforts,  to  the  gay  ! 
The  magic  of  Mosaic,  plants  marine, 
And  all  of  rich  and  beautiful,  I  ween. 

LIV. 

But  vaguely  wandering  from  walk  to  walk, 
Inez  appear' d  to  live  in  her  own  world ! 
Sometimes  with  airy  shapes  she  seem'd  to  talk ; 
Anon  her  lip  as  with  deep  scorn  was  curl'd ! 
And  then  in  rapid  movement  seem'd  to  mock 
And  gibe  some  phantom  !  now  her  arms  she  furl'd, 


CANTO  II.  93 

Like  one  who  had  convey'd  some  stern  behest, 
In  high  disdain  upon  her  heaving  breast ! 

LV. 

A  powerful  reaction  had  ensu'd 
In  all  his  feelings  ;  Oscar  seem'd  to  share 
Her  thoughts  no  longer ;  she  sought  solitude  ; 
But  mutter'd  sounds,  at  times,  would  reach  his  ear, 
Whose  painful  meaning  he  could  not  elude  ; 
Chang'd  as  he  was  himself,  he  could  not  bear, 
Nor  would  have  brook'd,  from  any  other  source, 
Allusion  to  his  sleepless  soul's  Remorse ! 

LVI. 

A  slaughter'd  husband,  and  a  wife  betray'd, 
Her  own  heart  broken  in  that  bitter  wrong ; 
His  doom,  for  whom  her  bosom  would  have  pray'd, 
Had  Reason  been  permitted  to  prolong 
Her  reign  —  that  Sorrow,  from  these  sources,  made 
Sole  theme  of  her  soliloquy  and  song, 
Which  comprehended  all  that  most  unmans  us, — 
May  well  be  gather' d  from  the  following  stanzas.  — 
6 


94  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

LVII. 

Which,  at  day's  close,  she  carol'd  to  an  air 

Wild  as  her  woe  !  that  seem'd  to  pierce  the  sky, 

As  if  some  sympathy  it  sought  for  there  ! 

It  was  the  voice  of  one  who  wish'd  to  die  ! 

And  touch'd  the  heart  as  with  the  power  of  prayer, 

That  seem'd  to  worship  in  that  minstrelsy  ! 

The  words  themselves  were  burning,  dark,  and  strong, 

Expressive  of  some  unforgiven  wrong :  — 

1. 

"A  Spirit  hath  breath'd  o'er  that  desolate  flower, 
And,  lo !  it  revives  in  the  midst  of  the  shower ! 
But  the  storm  and  the  sunshine  are  equally  vain, 
It  can  suffer  no  blight,  bear  no  blossom  again ! 
Then  let  the  winds  howl,  and  the  tempest  rage  on, 
They  can  wake  in  thy  heart  no  emotion  save  one  — 
Thy  vigil  by  day,  and  thy  vision  by  night, 
And  the  thought  that  pursues  thee  in  darkness  and  light! 
Thy  future  is  fearful,  thy  past  is  a  wreck, 
Thou  stand'st  like  the  mariner  on  the  lost  deck, 


CANTO    II.  95 

When  the  storm  hath  subsided,  whose  last,  sullen  moan, 
Is  the  knell  of  the  perish'd  !  —  O  why  left  alone  ! 
Thou  lookest  abroad  o'er  the  desolate  waste, 
The  plank  that  sustains  thee  is  sinking  full  fast ! 
There's  no  sheltering  bay,  and  no  speck  on  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  that  has  set,  shall  rise  never  for  thee  I " 

LVIII. 

Th'  allusion  in  these  verses  was  too  plain, 
And  was  as  palpable  in  those  that  follow ; 
Through  Oscar's  ear  they  pass'd  into  his  brain, 
And  struck  upon  it  with  a  sort  of  hollow 
Dull  agony,  like  clanking  of  a  chain  ; 
His  heart  beat  thick, — and,  as  he  tried  to  swallow. 
There  was  that  nervous  gurgling  in  the  throat, 
Attendant  upon  terror,  as  we  note  :  * 

*  "  On  approaching  the  gallows,"  says  one  who  was  present 
at  the  execution  of  Major  Andre,  "  he  trod  upon  a  stone,  and 
his  foot  slipped ;  and  I  could  distinctly  hear  that  difficult  swal 
low  in  the  throat,  which  indicates  uneasiness  of  mind." 

Andre's  conduct,  on  the  occasion  of  his  capture,  has  no 
where,  that  I  have  seen,  elicited  the  comments  to  which  it  was 
so  plainly  obnoxious.  His  self-possession  forsook  him  at  the 


96  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

2. 

"The  shock  and  surprise  —  Love's  confusion!  are  o'er, 
And  the  sorrow  that  shrives  thee,  shall  shrive  thee  no 

more ! 

The  foe  to  thy  love,  though  a  Lover !  shall  feel 
An  anguish  more  keen  than  the  stroke  of  the  steel ; 
A  suffering  deeper  than  that  he  hath  wrought  — 
A  remorse  without  fear,  and  a  mind  without  thought ! 
A  wreck  and  a  ruin  his  age  shall  be  driven, 
With  no  shelter  on  earth,  and  no  refuge  in  Heaven  ! 
On  his  head  shall  be  pour'd  out  the  phials  of  wrath, 
And  no  hope  shall  illumine  his  desolate  path ! 

moment  when  he  most  needed  it.  His  fate  hung  upon  the 
choice  he  should  make  of  one  nord,  and  he  chose  the  wrong 
one!  —  "Are  you  from  above,  or  below?"  asked  his  captors. 
Had  he  said  "above"  — although  he  believed  himself  within 
the  British  lines  —  yet,  his  captors  being  Americans,  he  would 
most  probably  have  been  suffered  to  pass  ;  and  had  they  been 
English,  still,  in  the  end,  all  would  have  been  right.  But  he 
said  "below"  —  and  he  perished!  as  he  deserved  to  do. 
War  —  which,  unless  strictly  defensive,  is  a  hideous  atrocity 
—  sanctions  no  greater  abomination  than  that  of  the  office  of 
a  spy,  an  office  which,  except  under  circumstances  of  impend 
ing  peril  to  either  of  the  contending  parties,  no  honorable  man 
should  ever  propose,  and  no  brave  man  consent  to  assume. 


CANTO  II.  97 

His  shroud  shall  be  darkness,  his  tomb  shall  be  fire, 
His  companion  the  worm  that  can  never  expire ! " 

LIX. 

To  be  talk'd  at,  as  many  of  us  know, 
Is  most  unpleasant,  though  the  voice  but  mutters ; 
But  how  shall  we  depict  the  hopeless  woe, 
The  sudden  heart-quake,  when  the  tongue  that  utters, 
Is  one  from  which  Love's  words  were  wont  to  flow  ? 
The  subject  tries  to  speak,  and  only  stutters ! 
Mankind  have  chang'd,  and  suddenly  assume 
The  character  and  color  of  his  doom ! 

LX. 

The  halls  of  Eblis !  and  the  unseen  fire, 
The  helpless  hand  upon  the  hopeless  breast ! 
Uncomfortable  feelings,  that  conspire 
To  convince  him  he 's  essentially  unblest ! 
A  friend  betrays  us,  and  we  can  retire 
In  cold  contempt,  that  robs  us  of  no  rest ; 
But  with  lost  love,  we  feel  that  all  is  lost  — 
We  are  alone  upon  a  desert  coast ! 


98  THE    GREEK   GIRL. 

LXI. 

In  youth  we  bear  these  things  a  good  deal  better, 

But  Oscar  felt  he  was  no  longer  young, 

Life  wore  the  sternness  of  the  "  bitter  letter ; " 

The  creature  of  emotions  that  had  wrung 

His  heart  in  boyhood,  he  now  felt  the  fetter 

Press  heavily ;  his  pride,  too,  had  been  stung 

In  many  trying  trials  ;  altogether, 

He  was  exceedingly  "under  the  weather"! 

LXII. 

Ah,  happy  !  did  the  soul  ne'er  droop,  but  keep 
Forever  onward  !  like  that  fabled  Bird 
Of  Paradise,*  whose  pinions  never  sleep  ! 
Beautiful  creature  !  when  the  heart  hath  heard 
How  thou  ascendest,  night  and  day,  the  steep 
And  void  abyss,  undaunted,  undeterr'd  ! 
Thine  eye's  far-piercing  glance  surveying  worlds, 
With  wing  that  never  falters,  and  ne'er  furls,  — 

*  Supposed  to  be  ever  on  the  wing. 


CANTO  II.  99 

LXIII. 

The  heart  hath  wept  to  think  that,  unlike  thee, 

O  Bird !  that  lav'st  thy  pinions  in  the  light, 

Drinking  its  radiance  !  it  is  doom'd  to  be 

Sojourner  'neath  this  cloudy  vail  of  night, 

With  no  companion  but  its  agony  ! 

Inmate  of  a  dungeon  barr'd  the  bright, 

The  ever-teeming  glories  that  surround 

Thee  without  blight,  with  wing  that  know'st  no  bound  ! 

LXIV. 

In  Oscar's  youth  —  how  credulous  is  youth! 
A  sort  of  Tasso,*  who,  till  time  shall  teach 
Her  downright  lessons,  never  learns  the  truth ; 
Life  lures,  the  fatal  apple  in  our  reach ! 
And  all  are  Eves,  if  they  but  speak  in  sooth ; 
The  self-same  penalty  attends  the  breach 
Of  a  strange  trust  —  though  free  in  the  infraction, 
It  still  incurs  a  terrible  exaction ! 

*  Prevailing  poet,  whose  undoubting  mind 
Believ'd  the  magic  wonders  that  he  sung ! 

COLLINS. 


100  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

LXV. 

He  had  in  youth  what  Milton's  daring  pen, 

Steep'd  in  the  fervor  of  the  Seraphim  ! 

Hath  term'd  "  Empyreal  conceits  "  —  but  then, 

The  time,  the  place  —  ah  me  !  both  now  are  dim, 

And  fading  never  to  recur  again  ! 

The  cup  which  once  had  sparkl'd  to  the  brim, 

Subsiding  left  his  manhood  but  the  lees  — 

Or  spectres,  in  the  shape  of  Memories  ! 

LXVI. 

Farewell  to  Youth !  and,  ah,  with  youth  farewell 
The  credulous  fancies  that  mistook,  for  truth, 
Things  upon  which  'twere  madness  now  to  dwell ! 
The  charm  unwinds !  and  all  that  once  seem'd  sooth, 
Time  disenchants,  and  so  dissolves  the  spell ; 
Then  once  again  a  long  adieu  to  Youth  ! 
The  love  of  youth  is  always  a  "  First  love," 
And  when  did  that  remembrance  fail  to  move  ? 

LXVII. 

And  she  who,  like  a  star,  had  pierc'd  the  gloom 
And  chas'd  the  shadows  from  his  early  brow, 


CANTO  II.  101 

With  whom  he  felt  identified  his  doom, 
Herself  had  pass'd  into  a  shadow  now, 
Receding,  till  it  settl'd  on  the  tomb ! 
She  had  become  more  calm,  and  seem'd  to  bow 
At  times  beneath  a  sense  of  her  sad  lot ; 
Save  this,  all  other  things  appear'd  forgot ! 

LXVIII. 

Present,  or  absent,  persons  were  the  same, 
She  talk'd  with  shadows  !  —  Oscar  held  her  hand, 
She  smil'd  —  but  only  knew  him  in  his  name ; 
Her  mind  went  wandering  in  other  land, 
Hopeless,  and  dark  !  —  And  frequently  he  came, 
And  sat  by  her,  and  then  the  self-same  bland 
Smile  past  across  her  features,  without  meaning — 
For  hope  and  heart  on  other  worlds  were  leaning ! 

LXIX. 

And  as  he  gaz'd  upon  that  still  fair  face, 
That  met  his  own,  and  turn'd  away  unmov'd  ! 
His  heart  pray'd  inwardly  for  God's  own  grace 
To  give  it  strength  !  —  for  only  t hen  he  prov'd 


102  THE    GREEK    GIBL. 

The  anguish  that  awaits  us,  where  we  place. 
In  one  selected  object,  so  belov'd  ! 
A  still-abiding,  concentrated  trust, 
Until  conviction  flashes  from  the  dust ! 

LXX. 

Thy  dark  and  dreadful  certainty,  O  Death ! 
Remembrancer  and  Moralist,  who  sittest 
On  our  right  hand,  presiding  o'er  the  breath 
Of  mortals,  —  as  the  Skeleton  deem'd  fittest 
Memorial,  where  Pleasure  binds  the  wreath 
On  Eastern  brows,*  and  the  dark  Maiden  flittest 
With  cheek  where  mirth  seems  sadden'd  by  the  gloom 
Of  semblances  still  pointing  to  the  tomb ! 

LXXI. 

The  certainty  that  what  we  love  must  die  ! 
A  still-recurring  thought,  that  saddens  deepest 
When  solitude  unveils  the  mental  eye 
To  see  the  truth  of  that  which  the  world  keepest 

*  See  Moore's  "  Epicurean,"  for  a  striking  account  of  this 
Oriental  custom. 


CANTO  II.  103 

Disguis'd  beneath  its  garish  pageantry, — 

Might  well  excuse  the  passionate  grief  that  weepest ! 

Dewing  the  nightly  pillow  with  its  tears, — 

Alas,  that  sorrow  but  the  more  endears  ! 

LXXIL 

Cold  hearts  reserve  such  tribute  for  the  dead, 
The  first  and  latest  shed  in  that  last  loss  ! 
The  requiem  sung,  the  ceremony  said, 
The  marble  plac'd  — 'tis  done  !  these  throw  a  gloss 
(Especially  the  "  Sables  "  —  if  well  made  !) 
Over  appearances  —  all  is  but  dross  ; 
Is  it  a  wife  ?  —  the  feast  and  funeral  o'er, — 
What  then  ?     Why  take  another,  to  be  sure  ! 

LXXIII. 

'Tis  the  world's  fashion,  and  it  mocks  the  breach, 
Because  it  is  a  thing  extremely  rare  ; 
The  pang  that  cuts  keen  hearts,  can  never  reach 
The  frozen  bosom  !  and  the  secret  tear, 
Dissolv'd  from  feelings  that  you  cannot  teach, — 
Though  hourly  shed,  must  be  conceal'd  with  care, 


104  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

By  those  who  would  not  wear  upon  their  sleeve 
Their  hearts  for  "daws  to  peck  at"  —  'tis  their  leave. 

LXXIV. 

"  They  jest  at  scars,  that  never  felt  a  wound,"  — 
And  for  the  simple  reason,  they've  no  feeling; 
But  the  time  will  come  when  these  bosoms,  bound 
On  Ixion's  wheel,  shall  undergo  a  peeling 
Will  find  a  voice,  like  cry  of  beaten  hound ; 
The  stringent  castigation,  sharp,  but  healing, 
Of  Phlegethon,  attemper'd  in  his  ire, 
Where  erring  spirits  are  reclaim'd  by  fire  ! 

LXXV. 

Where  are  the  shades  of  Csesar,  Pompey,  —  where 
Is  Cincinnatus,  and  the  Scipios  ? 
Where's  Anthony,  and  She  —  that  fatal  Fair! 
WThose  charms  prov'd  but  the  sources  of  his  woes  ? 
Where  is  that  Roman  who  knew  how  "  to  bear, 
As  well  as  act" ?  *     Where 's  Fabius  ?     Who  knows  ? 

*  Mutius  Scaevola. 


CANTO  II.  105 

Where's  he  of  Platea  and  Marathon  ? 
And  last,  not  least,  where  is  Napoleon  ? 

LXXVI. 

These  were  the  men  who  set  the  world  in  arms ! 
Will  any  tell  us  where  their  ghosts  are  gone  ? 
How  they  exist  for  whom  life  had  no  charms 
Distinct  from  mighty  battles  lost  and  won  ! 
Instead  of  spurring  steeds  to  fierce  alarms, 
(Now  that  "  Othello's  occupation's"  done  !) 
Have  they  turn'd  Choristers,  or  Priests  ?     Do  they 
Sing  hourly  canticles,  or  preach  ?     Which,  pray  ? 

LXXVII. 

Alas  !  to  think  that  Alexander  should 
Turn  Rhapsodist,  e'en  after  Lee's  example  ! 
Renounce  his  "  Beaver,"  and  the  "  Granic  flood-.'' 
To  try  his  powers  at  a  different  sample  ! 
Think  you  the  conqueror  of  Darius*  would 
Have  wept  at  having  no  more  worlds  to  trample, 

*  The  reader  will  be  so  obliging  as  to  place  the  accent  on 
the  first  syllable  of  the  name  —  contrary  to  usage,  but  in  ac 
cordance  with  that  license,  which  is  of  far  anterior  authority. 


106  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Had  he  foreseen  his  destiny  hereafter  ? 

The  Fiend's  arch  mock,  who  fear'd  the  world's  dread 
laughter ! 

LXXVIII. 

Sharper  than  death,  thy  victory,  O  Grave  ! 
Teaches  a  bitter  lesson  —  to  sustain, 
Hard  task  !  the  loss  of  one  we  could  not  save  ! 
We  weep  the  more  because  we  weep  in  vain ;  * 
And  if  the  voice  of  Grief  be  heard  to  rave, 
'Tis  not  the  closing  eye,  that  shuts  out  pain, — 
'T  is  the  last  loss,  when  the  tomb  closes  o'er 
All  that  we  lov'd,  and  shall  behold  no  more  !t 

LXX1X. 

'Tis  the  conviction,  flashing  from  the  dust, 
That  we  are  mourners !  that  the  life  indeed 
Is  past ;  the  idol  broken,  and  the  trust 
A  mockery !  't  is  from  this  wound  we  bleed  ; 

*  A  similar  reason  for  tears,  was  assigned  by  one  of  the 
Catos. 

f  See  (in  Moore's  "  Life "  of  him)  some  very  touching 
reflections,  by  Sheridan,  on  the  death  of  his  first  wife  (alas, 
for  his  faith!)  the  beautiful  "  Maid  of  Bath." 


CANTO  II.  107 

If  the  heart  break  not  in  that  passion's  gust, 

But  live  —  't  is  as  the  perish'd  Ocean  weed, 

Cast  by  the  waters  on  the  barren  shore, 

Where  sun  and  breeze  are  vain  —  it  blooms  no  more  ! 

LXXX. 

Tints  of  the  dying  day  were  spread  abroad 
Upon  the  sunset  sky,  till,  melting,  they 
In  characters  of  flame  no  longer  glow'd, 
But  softly  stealing  glided  into  gray ; 
High  o'er  the  Abbey  forth  the  young  Moon  rode, 
Its  towers  dissolv'd  in  the  voluptuous  ray ; 
Which,  glowing  there,  and  glass'd  within  the  stream, 
Gave  forth,  as  'twere,  the  image  of  a  Dream  !* 

*  In  a  volume  of  posthumous  poems,  by  Mrs.  Radclifie,  there 
are  some  half  dozen  lines,  descriptive  of  an  Abbey  seen  by 
twilight,  that  could  only  have  emanated  from  the  wonderful 
pen  that  sketched  "  The  Italian  "  : 

"  Now  evening  fell  o'er  all  the  vale, 
Shaded  each  tower  and  turret  pale  ; 
"Whilst,  shapeless,  huge,  obscure  as  doom, 
The  Abbey  stood  in  steadfast  gloom  ; 
Vast,  indistinct,  and  lone, 
Like  Being  from  a  world  unknown." 

Each  line  of  the  above  is  worth  volumes  of  the  "  flesh  and 


108  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

LXXXI. 

And  over  all  there  rcign'd  a  deep  repose, 
And  in  the  sky  Night's  solemn  hosts  were  met ; 
While  from  the  clear,  lull'd  lake,  at  times  arose 
A  floating  whisper  !  in  its  mirror  set, 
The  Druid  oak  its  antique  shadow  throws, 
Crowning  the  stream  with  leafy  coronet ; 
While,  heard  at  intervals,  a  fountain  near 
A  bubbling  freshness  breath'd  upon  the  air. 

LXXXII. 

Won  by  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  hour, 
That  charm'd  even  Echo,  slumb'ring  on  the  hill ! 
Oscar  became  a  sharer  in  its  power, 
And  sought  the  terrace,  which,  star-lit  and  still, 
Partook  the  influence  shed  o'er  tree  and  tower ; 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  remote  the  while, — and,  shrill, 
High  pois'd  in  air,  at  intervals  was  heard 
The  sudden  scream  of  solitary  bird  ! 


blood  of  this  world,"  although  their  authors  may  not  think  so  ; 
in  fact,  as  fine  poetry,  they  transcend  all  prose. 


CANTO    II.  109 

LXXXIII 

The  clock  struck  "  One  "  !  and  silence,  like  a  spell, 
Conjoin'd  with  sleep,  now  reign'd  the  Abbey  through ; 
For  each  had  slunk  as  to  his  separate  cell ; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  one  sleeper  drew 
Such  sounds  as  on  the  close  and  pent  air  fell 
With  a  deep  dissonance,  yet  not  untrue, 
As  being  quite  in  character  with  the  hour, 
When  the  mind  almost  deems  the  dead  have  power ! 

LXXXIV. 

The  very  silence  ach'd  upon  the  ear ! 
Till  the  sick  sense  could  scarce  discriminate, — 
Mistaking  distant  sounds  for  things  more  near ; 
If  but  a  coal  fall  clinking  from  the  grate, 
Or  sudden  crack  from  the  untrodden  stair, 
Start  into  sound  !  they  rouse  us  from  our  state 
Of  mental  musing,  or  of  watchfulness, 
When  most  we  feel  the  power  to  curse,  or  bless  ! 

LXXXV. 

The  world  shut  out,  the  soul  absorb'd  within, 
Existence  then  seems  curdl'd  to  an  hour ! 

* 

7 


110  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

Aloof  from  earth,  as  we  had  never  been, 
The  mind  attests  its  own  mysterious  power ! 
The  thousand  thoughts,  the  sorrow  and  the  sin, 
Which  we  perforce  partake  of  as  a  dower, 
Subsiding  when  the  stale  pursuit  is  past, 
Subdu'd,  recoil  upon  the  heart  at  last ! 

LXXXVI. 

Bath'd  in  the  deep  of  the  voluptuous  light, 
Doth  Oscar's  soul  to  other  worlds  take  wing, 
Soaring  triumphant  in  its  radiant  flight, 
Or,  darkling,  still  in  earth's  low  shadow  cling  ? 
What  spell  is  in  the  air,  or  on  the  night  ? 
What  dark  Magician  doth  his  sorcery  fling 
Across  his  path,  that,  wildly  pausing  there, 
He  seems  to  wither  like  a  thing  of  fear  ? 

LXXTVII. 

A  form,  like  statue,  mute  and  motionless, 
Stood  high  upon  the  turret's  topmost  verge  ; 
The  night-breeze  sported  with  the  snowy  dress, 
And  a  low  sound,  like  murmur  of  the  surge, 


CANTO    II.  Ill 

Pass'd  into  silence!  —  when,  in  suddenness, 
More  rapid  than  the  fleeting  of  that  dirge, 
The  spirit  of  the  Greek  Girl  pass'd  away, 
Cold  and  extinct  at  Oscar's  feet  she  lay  ! 

LXXXVIII. 

The  shock  had  been  so  sudden,  that  he  stood 
As  the  unbreathing  marble  !  when,  at  last, 
Roll'd  back  upon  his  brain  the  burning  blood, 
An  instinct  told  him  that  the  life  was  past — 
Only  transferr'd  to  mansions  of  the  Good  ! 
But  though  he  had  long  seen  that  she  was  fast 
Approaching  to  that  bourn,  yot  gentleness 
Had  been  her  nature,  and  deserv'd  no  less ! 

LXXXIX. 

And  morning  found  him  kneeling  by  the  side 
Of  that  pale  form,  himself  as  turn'd  to  stone ! 
For  him  the  world  had  pass'd  away  !  hope,  pride, 
Its  passions  and  its  purposes,  were  gone  ! 
O  never  more  could  the  returning  tide 
Waft  him  to  pleasure  !  —  he  must  end  alone 


112  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

His  journey,  —  watching  with  sad  eyes  in  vain  — 
No  star  shall  rise  upon  his  path  again ! 

XC 

Her  love  was  not  the  growth  of  years  —  the  flower 
That  springs  to  sudden  life  with  summer's  rain, 
The  generous  blossom  of  a  single  shower  ! 
Was  not  more  brief !  nor  did  it  bloom  in  vain  — 
An  age  absorb'd  in  that  tumultuous  hour ! 
Too  full,  too  perfect !  to  recur  again  ; 
Thus  all  things  in  their  turn,  at  last,  subside, — 
Her  passion  sleeps,  as  slept  her  early  pride  ! 

XCI. 

And  Oscar !  he  scarce  knew  which  way  to  turn, 

Unless  he  should  turn  Author !  and  why  not  ? 

Since  fools,  and  not  a  few,  contriv'd  to  earn 

A  name  as  paltry  as  the  page  they  blot ! 

His  temper,  however,  was  much  too  stern 

To  bear  an  author's  most  uncertain  lot ; 

And  Giffbrd  might  proceed  to  overhaul  him 

In  his  strong  way,  which  would  be  sure  to  gall  him ! 


CANTO  II.  113 

XCII. 

To  have  one's  pages  thumb'd  by  people  who 
But  open  them  to  find,  perhaps,  a  flaw ; 
Condemn'd,  in  turn,  to  those  who  never  knew 
The  luxury  even  of  an  annual  thaw, 
Beyond  the  temperature  of  Billet-doux ! 
And  thus  th'  unhappy  Bard  is  doom'd  to  draw 
Upon  his  brain,  extracting  it  on  paper, 
To  furnish  forth,  perhaps,  a  dirty  wrapper ! 

XCIII. 

It  is  a  cold  reflection  —  when  all's  done, 
To  have  one's  feelings  and  one's  thoughts  slur'd  over ; 
To  feel  that  in  the  crowd  we  move  as  one 
Condemn'd,  as  'twere,  between  two  worlds  to  hover, 
And  find  the  quiet  of  the  mind  in  none  ! 
To  look  around  us,  and  to  see  no  cover 
Laid  for  us  at  Life's  feast !  where  none  remain 
To  welcome  the  sad  Stranger  back  again  ! 

XCIV. 

Oscar  concluded,  finally,  to  leave 
His  friends  behind  —  his  foes  he  kept  before  him  ; 


114  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

The  first  he  fear'd,  for  they  were  wont  to  weave 
Snares  for  his  feet  —  the  last  could  never  floor  him  ! 
But  they  were  nothing.     He  had  learn'd  to  grieve 
As  those  who  hope  not !  and,  whate'er  came  o'er  him, 
The  future  had  no  further  trials  in  store, 
No  joy  to  greet,  no  pang  to  wound  him  more ! 

XCV. 

• 

And  careless  still  he  mingl'd  with  the  crowd 

Who  daily  dam  the  threshold  of  life's  door; 

His  words  were  few,  his  laughter  never  loud  ; 

His  thoughtful  brow  a  sober  sadness  wore, 

And,  when  unseen,  his  head  was  sometimes  bow'd 

Upon  a  breast  which  had  laid  up  in  store 

Food  for  reflection,  which,  could  such  things  slay, 

Had  spar'd  the  sleepless  night,  and  long,  long  day  ! 

XCVI. 

And  those  who  saw  him  droop  —  for  Grief  is  blind 
To  the  immediate  objects  of  all  eyes ; 
The  senses  slumber  with  the  absent  mind, 
And  all  of  life's  familiar  presence  dies ! 


CANTO  II.  115 

Or  if  as  men  they  mingle  with  mankind, 
Whom  sorrow  sears,  they  make  a  sacrifice  — 
But  to  no  purpose  —  the  averted  eye, 
And  ill-represt  contempt,  may  tell  us  why. 

XCVII. 

When  absent,  even  to  himself — his  mind 
Transported  to  the  past,  and  perish'd  !  —  then, 
A  sensibility  much  too  refin'd, 
Or  something  as  inscrutable  to  men  — 
Excessive  pride  !  —  were  sev'rally  assign'd 
As  reasons  for  his  reveries.     Again  : 
Had  he  not  thrown  his  counters  in  the  stream, 
And  walk'd  thro'  life  the  creature  of  a  dream  ? 

XCVIII. 

His  sensibility  was  only  such 
As  genius  gives,  his  pride  its  consciousness ; 
His  fallen  fortunes  touch'd  him  not  so  much, — • 
Though  money 's  as  essential,  more  or  less, 
To  most  men,  as  to  old  age  is  its  crutch ; 
JYbne  knew,  and  he  himself  would  not  confess 


116  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

The  unseen  cause  of  griefs  thus  strongly  cherish'd, 
But  —  many  things  had  cross'd  his  path,  and  perish'd  ! 

XCIX. 

His  daily  look  and  manner  plainly  told 
His  thoughts  and  feelings  were  not  with  the  hour ; 
The  former  had  acquir'd  an  air  of  old 
Remembrances  —  and  these  are  Passion's  dower ! 
In  youth  all  fervor,  in  his  manhood  cold, 
Was  there  in  time  to  work  such  change  the  power  ? 
Let  those  whose  early  hearts  outstripp'd  their  years, 
Answer, — why  Tenderness  should  close  in  tears  ! 

C. 

He  took  his  hat,  with  careless  glove  in  hand, 
And,  with  some  feelings  useless  'twere  to  state, 
Sought  the  accustom'd  ship,  and  saw  the  land 
Of  all  his  race  —  his  native  land  !  where  late 
He  had  —  but  there  are  things  should  not  be  scann'd 
Too  nicely ;  he  was  gone  !  no  lurking  hate 
He  left  behind  him  ;  his  high  spirit  scorn'd 
That  feeling  then,  and  the  self-exile  mourn'd ! 


CANTO  II.  117 

CI. 

And  he  was  gone  !  and  where  his  boyhood  grew, 
His  lonely  age  must  hope  not  to  repose ; 
The  world  to  him  was  now  no  longer  new, 
And  full  before  him  !     Where  it  was  he  chose 
To  end  his  pilgrimage,  none  ever  knew ; 
His  sun  went  down,  I  fear,  not  as  it  rose  ! 
For  gifts  of  genius,  like  the  lightning's  play, 
Are  but  the  presage  of  a  stormy  day  !  * 

*  "  There  are  qualities  of  heart  and  mind,  which,  though 
partaken  of  only  by  superior  persons,  promise,"  said  Charlotte 
Corday,  "  but  a  stormy  life." 


END  OF  CANTO  II. 


NOTES    TO  CANTO   II. 


NOTE  1.    Page  68. 
An  Angel  link'd  her  fortunes  with  a  Devil! 

MRS.  CHARLOTTE  EMBURY  has  written  some  verses  com 
memorative  of  the  Empress  Josephine,  which  combine  un 
usual  force,  with  a  good  deal  of  that  high,  queen-like,  yet 
womanly  feeling,  which  characterized,  in  so  remarkable  a 
degree,  the  "Martyr-Spirit"  who  once  shared  the  diadem  of 
Napoleon.  It  is  impossible  to  read  these  lines,  —  which  are 
a  true  reflection,  in  words,  of  the  elevated  character  of  the 
Empress, — without  an  emotion  approaching  to  adoration 
for  that  exemplary  and  devoted  woman,  who  so  thoroughly 
appreciated  the  soul  of  Napoleon  ;  and  who  laid  down  her 
own  happiness,  as  a  wife,  at  the  shrine  of  his  glory,  as  the 
"  world's  great  Victor."  Her  sympathy  with  his  fortunes,  — 
her  constancy  and  high-toned  honor,  —  were  requited,  if  not 
with  ingratitude,  yet  with  a  feeling  very  nearly  a-kin  to  it  — 
ultimate  indifference.  By  a  selfish  and  cruel  policy,  she  was 
banished  the  presence  of  the  man  she  idolized  ;  and  her  place 
supplied  by  an  insipid  Austrian  Princess  —  mean  as  she  was 
heartless  —  who,  false  to  the  ties  alike  of  honor  and  of  feel 
ing,  deserted  her  husband  and  son  —  not  relishing  the  gloom 


120  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

into  which  the  glory  of  the  one  had  subsided ;  and  forgetting 
the  other  in  her  love  for  —  her  Chamberlain  !  She  was  emi 
nently  worthy  of  the  tribute  which  Byron  paid  to  her  in  his 
"  Age  of  Bronze." 

NOTE  2.    Page  89. 
For,  being  the  forfeit  of  a  deep  disease. 

"When  the  Moralists  tell  us,  that  reason,  conscience,  the 
moral  sense,  &e.,  are  given  to  us  for  the  regulation  of  our 
lives,  and  proceed  to  denounce,  as  bad  men,  all  whose  conduct 
is  not  strictly  based  upon  their  rules,  they  are  met  by  the 
physiologists  with  the  following  language,  which  is  well  calcu 
lated  to  arrest  attention:  —  "Excitement,  beyond  healthy 
action,  is  fever  of  the  brain,  according  to  its  degree.  This 
produces  proportionally  morbid  manifestations ;  and  morbid 
images  and  associations  are  apt  to  take  place.  Ideas  are 
produced  more  vividly  and  more  [rapidly  than  usual ;  nor  is 
it  in  the  power  of  the  mind  to  control  them  ;  for,  being  the 
physical  results  of  organic  agencies,  they  are  not  under  the 
command  of  reason  and  reflection."  (Newnham,  on  the  Effects 
of  Physical  Influences  on  the  Brain,  p.  62.)  Now  if  it  be 
said  that  all  this  —  that  is,  the  "excitement  beyond  healthy 
action,"  spoken  of  above,  as  conducing  to  the  effects  there 
enumerated  —  is  but  the  consequence  of  giving  nay  to  the 
temper  (for  this  is  the  favorite  language  of  the  moralists,)  I 
can  only  reply,  that  this  undue  "  excitement "  is  referred,  by 
the  physiologists  themselves,  to  "irritating  circumstances," 
"depressing  passions,"  &c.  —  and  who  shall  say  that  the 


NOTES   TO   CANTO   II.  121 

liability  to  these  influences  is  not  in  itself  as  much  the  "  phy 
sical  result  of  organic  agencies,"  (of  organization)  as  are  the 
effects  thus  ascribed  to  it  ?  The  brain,  or  blood  (the  last  act 
ing  on  the  first)  is  not  tempered  alike  in  all  men  —  being  in 
some  far  more  excitable  than  in  others  —  so  that  the  same 
"irritating  circumstances,"  of  which  Mr.  Newnham  speaks, 
shall  have  incalculably  less  effect  upon  some  minds  than  upon 
others ;  and  here  (if  there  be  any  truth  in  physiology)  the 
whole  matter  —  I  was  about  to  say  mystery  —  but  that  it  is, 
assuredly,  intelligible  enough  to  all,  perhaps,  except  the 
moralists  —  is  explained.  Who  shall  say,  I  repeat,  that  the 
"irritating  circumstances,"  the  "depressing  passions,"  here 
spoken  of,  shall  produce  the  same  effects,  for  instance,  upon 
a  poetical  (excitable)  and  a  phlegmatic  (unexcitable)  brain  ; 
upon  the  "quick  bosom"  of  a  Byron,  and  the  cool,  plodding 
head  of  a  "business  member"  of  Parliament  —  Mr.  Joseph 
Hume,  let  me  suppose?  No  !  —  before  these  complacent  mor 
alists  shall  assume  to  prescribe  the  conduct  of  their  fellow- 
men,  let  them,  if  they  can,  first  show  that  the  same  suscepti 
bility  to  moral  and  physical  influences,  exists  in  all  the  race. 
Until  they  can  do  this,  their  philosophy  is  an  atrocious  libel ; 
and  their  judgments  a  moral  murder. 

NOTE  3.    Page  89. 
The  pulse  beats  high  within  the  temples  still ! 

One  of  the  settlers  on  our  western  borders,  says  a  valued 
friend,  had  used  a  good  deal  of  argument  to  a  Cherokee  Chief, 
in  order  to  dissuade  him  from  a  hostile  expedition  on  which 


122  T11E    GREEK    GIRL. 

he  was  about  to  set  out.  The  Indian  listened  with  fixed  at 
tention,  and,  when  his  adviser  had  ceased,  replied,  that  what 
he  had  said  was  undoubtedly  very  just ;  but  that  his  feelings 
and  resentments  were  not  thus  to  be  reasoned  away.  "  Your 
arguments,"  said  he,  "are  like  good  medicine,  which  yet  often 
fails  of  effect  —  the  patient  takes  it,  but  the  pulse  still  continue* 
high  in  his  temple."  The  highly  imaginative  and  even  plain 
tive  character  of  the  North  American  Indian,  is  further  illus 
trated  in  the  following  reply  of  a  Seminole  "Warrior  to  the 
Commissioners  employed  by  the  United  States  government 
to  hold  a  "Talk"  with  his  "Nation,"  at  which  I  was  pres 
ent.  Various  arguments  were  resorted  to  with  a  view  to 
reconcile  them  to  the  plan  of  emigration  west  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  that  had  been  decided  on  by  the  governmen;  as  best 
comporting  with  the  interests  of  both  parties.  The  fertility 
of  the  soil,  salubrity  of  climate,  and  beauty  of  country,  were 
all  set  forth,  with  the  hope  of  inducing  them  peaceably  to 
pass  over  into  the  land  of  promise.  When  the  Commissioners 
ceased,  a  Chief  rose,  and  delivered  himself  thus:  —  "You 
advise  us  to  move  to  the  new  country  in  the  West,  where  you 
tell  us  we  shall  live  more  happily.  The  white  man  goes  into 
a  low,  unsightly  '  Bottom,'  and  there  sees  a  beautiful  flower. 
How  much  better  it  would  be,  he  says,  to  take  this  flower  to 
some  spot  where  the  sun  can  shine  on  it,  and  the  air  visit  it 
more  freely. 

"  The  white  man  takes  it  from  its  bed,  sends  it  to  that  new 
and  sunny  spot  —  and  in  a  little  time  it  dies  .'•" 


NOTES    TO    CANTO    II.  123 

NOTE  4.     Page  92. 
A  verdant  lawn  embraced  the  Abbey  round. 

In  presuming  to  meddle  with  this  Gothic  subject,  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  say  a  word  with  a  view  to  propitiate  the  celebrated 
author  of  the  tale  of  the  "  Pilot,"  who  professes  to  entertain 
profound  contempt  for  all  such  topics.  On  approaching  that 
portion  of  his  admirable  work,  (the  tale  in  question)  in  which 
he  has,  very  reluctantly,  he  says,  to  describe  an  Abbey  (that 
occupied  by  his  "  Howard  family  "  in  England),  Mr.  Cooper 
avails  himself  of  the  occasion  to  express  his  scorrt  for  those 
understandings  which  delight,  he  says,  in  magnifying  the 
mysteries  of  haunted  houses,  echoing  galleries,  and  walls  that 
have  ears  —  preferring,  as  he  alleges,  to  address  himself  to 
the  "  flesh  and  blood''  of  this  world,  and  not  the  airy  nothings 
of  an  imaginary  one.  Opinions  like  these  challenge  criticism. 
They  do  violence  to  some  of  the  most  cherished  recollections 
and  associations  of  a  large  class  of  readers,  in  seeking  to 
disparage,  and  in  a  tone  of  supercilious  sarcasm,  the  sources 
from  which  they  are  derived  j  while  they  imply,  rather  too 
directly,  a  preference  for  that  class  of  works  in  which  Mr. 
Cooper  himself  so  confessedly  excels.  But  does  he  not  stand 
yet  more  gravely  committed  ?  In  affecting  to  deride  the  labors 
of  those  minds  which,  soaring  beyond  this,  have  expatiated 
in  imaginary  worlds,  he  betrays  what  has  very  much  the 
appearance  —  I  will  not  say  of  ignorance  of  some  of  the  most 
profound  sources  of  fiction  —  but  of  insensibility  to  those 
creations  of  genius,  those  "  Beings  of  the  Mind  "  —  as  Byron 
so  justly  and  finely  expresses  it  —  that  exercise  such  won- 


124  THE    GREEK    GIRL. 

derful  sorcery  over  congenial  intellects  —  even  as  the  mighty 
dead  are  said  to  "rule  us  from  their  urns."  That  "longing 
after  immortality,"  which  is  an  instinct  of  the  soul  of  man, 
finds  grateful  food  and  a  soothing  field  in  elements  like  those 
usually  served  up  to  us  in  the  works  of  which  I  speak.  This 
feeling  derives  measureless  relief  in  being  permitted  occa 
sionally  to  soar  beyond  the  every -day,  coarse,  and  too  often 
degrading,  influences  of  earth,  and  to  mingle  with  celestial 
worlds!  —  and,  forgetting  its  "muddy  vesture  of  decay,"  to 
bathe  itself  in  the  unspeakable  bliss  of  the  emancipated  spirit ! 
He  who  finows  not,  feels  not  this,  may,  indeed,  possess  talent 
—  but  he  is  a  stranger  to  the  inspirations  of  that  genius  to 
which  we  are  indebted  for  "  The  Ghost  Seer,"  "  The  Monk," 
"  The  Italian,"  and  the  other  works  of  that  class,  which  will 
be  read,  admired,  and  felt,  long  after  the  entire  library  of  our 
modern  novels  is  forgotten.  Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  Mr. 
Cooper  is  one  of  the  few  masters  in  his  line  of  which  the  age 
can  boast.  I  am,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  a 
very  great  admirer  of  the  "  Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  and  a 
few  others  of  his  tales  —  so  much  so,  that  I  could  read  them  a 
second  time  ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  (his  great  powers  as  a 
writer)  that  I  have  been  led  to  notice  the  slur  he  has  levelled 
at  the  "  better  Brothers"  of  another  class,  whose  genius  and 
•works  neither  he  nor  his  excel. 

"While  the  above  was  in  the  press,  intelligence  was  received 
of  the  death  of  Mr.  Cooper.  No  one  —  I  may  be  permitted  to 
say  —  admired  him,  as  a  writer,  more  than  myself  j  and,  in 
commenting,  as  I  have  done,  upon  what  I  conceived  to  be  an 
error  of  opinion  on  his  part,  I  had  no  desire  to  detract  (had  I, 


NOTES    TO   CANTO    II.  125 

indeed,  been  capable,  in  any  sense  of  the  word,  of  doing  so) 
from  his  distinguished  and  well-earned  reputation  as  a  novel 
ist.  He  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  master  in  that  line.  His 
Indian  tales,  and  tales  of  the  sea,  have  never  been  equalled ; 
and  many  a  century  is  likely  to  elapse,  ere  the  literary  annals 
of  our  country  shall  have  been  graced  by  works  of  similar 
merit  in  their  kind. 


TO    THE    GOLD    SEARCHER. 


Go  !  shut  them  from  thy  heart, 

The  ties  that  bind  thee  ; 

Go  !  shun  th'  accursed  mart, 

Where  woes  that  blind  thee  — 

Like  Gladiator  reeling 

Before  those  stony  eyes  ! 

Make  thee  a  sacrifice  — 

Pride,  passion,  feeling, 

Virtues  no  more  in  thee ; 

And  only  watch'd  to  see 

How  the  pang  searches  —  the  keen  sword 

Cuts  to  the  core,  and  no  complaining  word  — 

Save  the  strong  curse  !  which,  could  it  kill, 

Would  be  the  lightning  to  strike  down, 

And  strangle  in  th'  arena's  blood, 

The  cold  barbarians,  who  still, 


128  TO    THE    GOLD    SEARCHER. 

In  purple  sheen,  rank  as  the  down  upon 
The  Ulcer-flower,  murmur  —  "  Good  !  "  * 

Go  !  to  the  yellow  mine, 
Mark  how  those  monarchs  shine 
In  golden  pomp  !  beneath  their  sway 
See  myriads  bend  the  knee,  and  pray 
Mercy  for  those  who  have  it  not ! 
The  monied  Molochs,  at  whose  shrine 
All  that  might  bless  the  humble  lot  — 
Contentment  —  'neath  its  tree  and  vine  ; 
Love,  ardent  as  the  day-god's  ray  ! 
And  Innocence,  as  cherub  mild  ; 
Matron  and  maid,  youth,  age  —  a  prey 
To  the  insatiate  thirst,  are  laid  —  till,  wild 

*  Genius  and  Adversity  are  the  accustomed  gladiators  upon 
whose  dying  struggles  the  world  is  wont  to  look  down  with 
all  the  complacency  of  the  spectators  at  the  Roman  circus. 
It  may  be  remarked,  too,  that  the  criminal  laws  of  Great 
Britain,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  add,  of  some  of  our  own  States, 
could  they  find  a  tongue,  would,  without  doubt,  express  their 
satisfaction  at  the  horrors  they  give  rise  to,  pretty  much  after 
the  manner  of  a  Claudius  or  a  Caligula. 


TO    THE    GOLD    SEARCHER.  129 

With  unrequited  pains, 

To  see  their  blood-bought  gains 

Melted  into  a  diadem, 

That  scorches  not  the  villain's  brow  ! 

They  take  by  fraud  what  force  had  taken — 

When,  lo  !  the  roof  which  wrong  had  shaken, 

Is  crushed  —  and  with  it  tree  and  stem  — 

Indignant  rage  is  silent  now  !* 

Go  !  to  the  sun's  western  grave, 

Where  shines  the  light  of  the  golden  mines ! 

Bondman  to  fortune,  wouldst  thou  save 

Thy  heartstrings  from  consuming  fires  ? 

Lo  !  where  the  mother  pines  — 

The  wailing  babe  —  its  fount  of  life  dried  up 


*  The  enormous  taxation  of  England  and  the  continent, 
arising  out  of  the  character  of  their  respective  governments, 
and  which  is  only  a  part  of  that  gigantic  system  of  plunder 
waged  against  the  many  for  the  benefit  of  the  few  —  together 
with  the  heartless  conscription  enforced  in  the  factories  of  the 
former  —  are  here  represented  as  arrayed  against  those  Virtues 
and  Affections  which  they  ultimately  annihilate ! 


130  TO    THE    GOLD    SEARCHER. 

By  Unseen  sorrow  !     Bid  that  cup 
Pass  from  them. 

Go  !  not  with  desires 
Unchasten'd,  unsubduM 
By  the  great  Soul  in  solitude  ; 
The  lofty  spirit,  at  whose  side 
Walks  its  Creator  —  the  Good  Man! 
Whose  pure  affections  —  rais'd,  refin'd 
By  the  indissoluble  mind, 
Serene  —  above  or  vulgar  pride, 
Or  paltry  lust  of  lucre  —  can, 
Like  the  broad  oak,  at  whose  base  builds 
(To  Faith  to  Mercy  lifts  the  eye  !) 
The  ant  —  dispense  sweet  charity, 
With  healing  on  its  wing  —  o'er  ills 
They  feel,  and  faults  they  never  knew. 

Go  !  to  the  golden  West, 

To  give  the  weary  rest ! 

To  save,  as  life  declines,  the- few 

Remnants  of  peace  the  world  hath  left 

To  those  who  never  knew  its  ways  — 


TO    THE    GOLD    SEARCHER.  181 

The  gentle  and  the  gifted !     O  to  these 

Be  as  the  dew  unto  the  earth  beneath. 

For  are  they  not  as  orphans,  all  bereft 

Of  sterner  guards,  where  all  betrays ! 

So  build  them  up,  that  the  high  soul, 

Which  draws  its  inspiration  from  disease  — 

Shall  feel  no  more  the  damps  of  death 

Upon  its  heaven-ward  wings  grow  cold, 

Ere  yet  it  hath  attain'd  its  star-lit  goal ! 

Damps  from  this  earth  —  its  poor  neglect 

Of  those  who  do  redeem  it !  till,  grown  old  — 

Rather  in  sorrow  than  in  years — 

They  sink  into  the  tomb !  from  which  a  light. 

Goes  up  that  warms  the  world  — 

Supplied  by  him  who  withered  in  the  shade  ! 

A  frequent  lesson,  the  proud  intellect 

Sees  fall  unheeded  on  the  dull,  cold  ears 

Of  those  who  are  like  gropers  in  the  night, 

Half  reason  and  half  instinct ! 

Yes,  unfurl'd 

Thy  white  sail  on  the  gentle  deep 
Of  the  Pacific,  Searcher,  Go  !    ' 


132  TO    THE    GOLD    SEAECHER. 

And  if  thou  never  didst  degrade, 
Having  the  power  —  nor  yet  oppress 
Thy  innocent  brother,  nor  work  woe 
To  the  confiding  bosom,  —  He,  who  fed 
His  servant  in  the  desert,  thee  shall  keep 
Untempted  in  the  wilderness ! 
Where  if  its  golden  guerdon  wait  thee  not, 
And  some  vain  mocker  shall  deride  thy  lot, 
Be  comforted  —  for,  lo !  the  Book  of  Fate  - 
The  rich  man,  and  the  beggar  at  his  gate  ! 


KOSSUTH   TO  HIS   HUNGARIANS. 


Lo,  Maxzars  !*  the  dawn  of  that  morning  draws  near, 
The  brightest  or  darkest  on  History's  page  — 
When  thy  falchions,  that  gleam  like  the  Falcon  in  air. 
Must  bear  Glory  aloft  in  the  battle  they  wage  ! 

The  fears  of  the  timid,  the  doubts  of  the  tame, 
No  counsel  can  give,  and  no  courage  inspire ; 
In  the  hearts  of  the  bold  must  be  nurtured  the  flame 
That  for  ages  hath  lit  Freedom's  altar  and  pyre. 

The  craven  and  false,  who  would  yield  or  betray 
The  rights  of  thy  soil,  and  the  blood  of  thy  brave, 

*  For  the  sake  of  convenience,  I  have  substituted  the  name 
as  pronounced,  for  the  name  as  it  is  written. 


134  KOSSUTH    TO    HIS    HUNGARIANS. 

Thy  wrath  shall  o'ertake  at  no  far-distant  day, 

In  the  traitor's  dark  doom,  the  deep  brand  of  the  slave! 

Tho'  the  hosts  of  the  Tyrant  should  darken  the  sun, 
Thy  banners  shall  float  in  the  shade  that  succeeds ; 
Lo,  the  words  on  the  walls  of  the  Muscovite  Hun  ! 
The  Assyrian's  doom  is  in  store  for  his  deeds. 

From  the  ashes  of  those  who  in  darkness  went  down, 
The  Martyrs  of  Poland  !  a  river  of  flame 
Is  bursting,  to  whelm  in  its  rage  cowl  and  crown, 
And  bears  on  its  breast,  Kosciusko  !  thy  name.* 

On  the  sleeping  Volcano's  cold  brow  there  is  bloom, 
The  garlands  prepar'd  for  the  harvest  of  death  ; 


*  At  the  time  when  these  lines  were  written  (eighteen  months 
ago),  Hope  appeared  in  momentary  gleam  upon  the  political 
horizon  of  Poland.  Alas,  that  hope,  in  the  words  of  Moore, — 

"  was  born  in  fears, 
And  nurs'd  by  vain  regrets  ; 

Like  winter  suns  it  rose  in  tears, 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets  ! " 


KOSSUTH    TO    HIS    HUNGARIANS.  135 

In  the  Despot's  deep  purple  behold  the  same  doom, 
O'er  his  gardens  hath  pass'd  Freedom's  hurricane 
breath ! 

Her  voice  hath  gone  forth  !    and,  from  mountain  to 

main, 

Her  people  have  heard  it  — her  sons  are  awake  ! 
Save  the  few,  the  false-hearted  !  whom  Honor  in  vain 
Would  impel,  as  she  points  to  their  fetters,  to  Ireak  ! 

Then  let  the  slaves  wear  them  !  till  prone  in  the  dust 
The  foot  of  the  tyrant  hath  trod  them  at  last ; 
The  scorn  of  the  free  —  a  world's  wonder  —  disgust! 
When  the  future  shall  chide,  will  they  blush  for  the  past  ? 

When  the  fires  that  slumber  in  Erin's  green  turf, 
Shall  burst  o'er  the  grave  of  her  Emmett  anew ; 
When  the  soul  of  Fitzgerald,  ne'er  made  for  a  Serf, 
Shall  prompt  her  to  draw  the  same  weapon  he  drew, — 

Then  Tyranny's  steps,  amid  Liberty's  bloom, 
Shall  show  like  those  prints  that  in  Autumn  appear ; 


136  KOSSUTH    TO    HIS    HUNGARIANS. 

In  the  midst  of  deep  verdure  invested  with  gloom, — 
A  marvel,  a  warning  !  indelible  there.* 

*  The  scorched  steps  here  referred  to,  not  unfrequently  ar 
rest  the  eye  of  the  traveller  in  our  Western  wilds.  When  the 
grass  becomes  crisped  by  frost,  it  is  exceedingly  brittle ;  and 
the  foot  of  a  man,  or  even  of  a  child,  is  sufficiently  heavy  to 
break  it  completely  down,  and  kill  it ;  and  thus,  when  the  sun 
has  thawed  the  frosty  rime  from  the  fields,  these  footsteps 
appear  brown  and  bare,  in  the  midst  of  the  surrounding  and 
flourishing  green. 


TO  HIM  WHO  CAN  ALONE  SIT  FOR 
THE   PICTURE. 


IF  to  be  free  from  aught  of  guile, 
Neither  to  do  nor  suffer  wrong ;  * 
Yet  in  thy  judgments  gentle  still, 
Serene  —  inflexible  in  will, 
Only  where  some  great  duty  lies : 
Prone  to  forgive,  or,  with  a  smile, 
Reprove  the  errors  that  belong 
To  natures  that  fall  far  below 
The  height  of  thy  empyreal  brow : 
Of  self  to  make  a  sacrifice, 
Rather  than  view  another's  woe  ; 

*  "A  clear,  unblemished  character,"  says  Jtmius,  "com 
prehends  not  only  the  integrity  that  will  not  offer,  but  the 
spirit  that  will  not  submit,  to  an  injury  j  and,  whether  it 
belong  to  an  individual,  or  to  a  community,  is  the  foundation 
of  peace,  of  independence,  and  of  safety." 


138  TO    HIM    WHO    CAN    ALONE 

And,  guided  by  the  same  fix'd  law 

Supreme,  to  yield,  in  argument, 

The  bootless  triumph  that  might  draw 

Down  pain  upon  thy  opponent : 

By  Fate  oppress'd,  "in  each  hard  instance  tried," 

Still  seen  with  Honor  walking  by  thy  side  ; 

E'en  in  those  hours  when  all  unbend, 

And  by  some  thoughtless  word  offend, 

Thy  conscious  spirit,  great  and  good, 

Neither  upborne,  nor  yet  subdu'd, 

Impress'd  by  sense  of  human  ill, 

Preserv'st  its  even  tenor  still ; 

While  'neath  that  calm,  clear  surface  lie 

Thoughts  worthy  of  Eternity  ! 

And  passions  —  shall  I  call  them  so  ? 

Celestial  attributes  !  that  glow 

Radiant  as  wing  of  Seraphim, 

Lighting  thy  path,  in  all  else  dim. 

Plac'd  on  their  lofty  eminence, 

Thou  see'st  the  guerdons -that  to  thee  belong, 

Pass'd  to  the  low-brow'd  temple,  burn  intense  — 

Standing  botween  thec  and  the  throng 


SIT    FOR    THE    PICTURE.  139 

Of  noble  minds,  thy  great  compeers ! 
And  still  the  same  serenity  appears, 
Like  star  in  its  own  solitude  — 
Setting  its  seal  on  thy  majestic  blood ! 
If  elements  like  these  could  give 
The  record  that  might  bid  them  live, 
The  mighty  dead  —  Saint,  Sophist,  Sage, 

Achilles  in  his  tent  — 
Might  claim  in  vain  a  brighter  page, 

A  haughtier  monument.* 

*  Of  the  original  of  this  imperfect  sketch,  I  can  with 
entire  truth  say,  in  the  language  of  Auerbury,  speaking  of 
Berkeley,  —  "I  did  not  think  that  so  much  understanding,  so 
much  knowledge,  so  much  innocence,  and  so  much  humility," 
—  and,  in  the  present  instance,  I  may  add,  —  so  much  and 
such  uniform  dignity,  united  to  the  highest  grade  of  personal 
intrepidity,  and  a  glowing  fancy  worthy  of . the  "young-eyed 
Cherubim,"  —  "  was  the  portion  of  any  but  Angels." 


TWILIGHT    THOUGHTS. 


YE 'RE  fading  in  the  distance  dim, 

Illusions  of  the  heart ! 
Yes,  one  by  one,  recall'd  by  Him  — 

I  see  ye  all  depart ! 

The  swelling  pride,  the  rising  glow, 
The  spirit  that  would  mount ! 

The  mind,  that  sought  all  things  to  know, 
And  drank  at  that  dread  fount, 

Over  whose  waters,  dark  and  deep, 

Their  sleepless  vigils  still 
Those  melancholy  Daughters  keep, 

Or  by  the  sacred  Hill ! 


TWILIGHT    THOUGHTS.  141 

Deep  Passion's  concentrated  fire, 

The  soul's  volcanic  light ! 
A  Phoenix  on  her  fun'ral  pyre, 

The  Eden  of  a  night ! 

The  wish  to  be  all  things  —  to  soar, 
And  comprehend  the  universe  ; 

Yet  doom'd  to  linger  on  the  shore, 

And  feel  our  fetter'd  wings  a  curse  ! 

To  drink  in  Beauty  at  a  glance, 

Its  graces  and  its  bloom  ; 
Yet  weave  the  garlands  of  Romance, 

To  decorate  the  tomb  ! 

To  sigh  for  some  dear  Paradise, 

Exempt  from  age  or  death  ; 
To  live  forever  in  those  eyes, 

And  breathe  but  with  that  breath ! 

To  be  awaken'd  from  such  dream, 

With  the  remembrance  clinging  still ! 
9 


142  TWILIGHT   THOUGHTS. 

Like  flowers  reflected  in  a  stream, 
Where  all  is  chang'd  and  chill ! 

To  feel  that  life  can  never  bring 

Its  Rainbow  back  to  our  lost  sky  ! 

Plucks  from  the  hand  of  death  its  sting, 
The  grave  its  victor}' ! 


TO  CHRISTY'S    MINSTRELS.* 


MELODIOUS  MINSTRELS  !  whose  enchanting  shell 

Weaves  round  the  captive  heart  its  wond'rous  spell ! 

in  some  far  hour,  upon  some  distant  shore, 

Where  thy  sweet  voices  ne'er  can  reach  me  more, — 

How  oft  will  Fancy,  pausing,  list  to  hear 

Thy  melting  music  on  the  midnight  air ! 

Prink  in  each  note,  and  feel  a  wish  to  pray 

In  the  deep  pathos  of  thy  "  Dearest  Mae  "  ! 

Or  —  still  as  swells  that  other,  saddest  strain  — 

Murmur,  O  "  Would  I  were  a  boy  again  !"f 


*  The  New  York  Melodists. 

f  "Dearest  Mae,"  and  "Would  I  were  a  boy  again,"  as 
sung  and  played  by  these  Minstrels,  subdue  the  heart  lo  the 
very  quality  of  the  wonderful  music ! 


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S588g 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS2839  .S588g 
y 


L  009  599  282  2 


